


Vindication and Frailty

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Turned Into Vampire, F/M, Flowers, Gen, Horror, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Pain, Poetic, Romance, Roses, Sexual Content, Shipping, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Torture, Vampire Moriarty, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Vamplock, Violence, classic horror, sherlock/moriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fangs dragged along his skin, piercing him as he wailed in pain. His cells were changing, forming into a new life as Sherlock helplessly laid on the blood soaked grass. </p><p>How did it come to this? He could hear the blood screaming his name as it pumped through the veins of the living. </p><p>John was gone and he must never find out what Sherlock has become. He would do anything to prevent that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Encounter

The cold air howled as the wind blew against Sherlock’s skin. His face was bloody as the moon shone down onto him, highlighting his features. He could feel the blood cascading down his face, seeping into the ground below. The rich liquid soon stained what used to be green blades of grass into red.

He laid on the grass, the puddle of blood forming around him grew as time went on. He coughed, he weeped as his fists clenched the earth below. He could feel himself becoming weak, fragile as his body fell deeper into nothingness.

His breathing was slow and harsh, painfully causing his wails of pain to echo throughout the night sky. The howl of the wind carried his cries, blowing them away as if they were non-existent.

“Look at you. You pathetic, merciful creature. You’re on your knees, begging for help. Are you praying for a second chance? Hoping that somewhere a higher power is going to intervene and miraculously save your life? I highly doubt it. You’re going to die, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock agonizingly rose his head, stealing every ounce of energy he had. He stared at the mystery man looming over him. The darkness shrouded his face, giving Sherlock no indication to who the man was or why he was here.

“W-Who are you?” Sherlock struggled, snarling through the blood seeping into his mouth.

“The bringer of life, the bringer of death. Your savior. It doesn't matter who I am.”

The man snatched at Sherlock’s face, clawing his chin so they faced each-other. The blood on Sherlock’s chin seeped into his fingers, causing him to shudder at the sensation.

 _Thick, red, blood_. It flowed as it’s aroma filled the air. Nostrils flared as he indulged in the scent, breathing in it’s ecstasy .

Without a word he took hold of Sherlock’s dark curls, yanking them into the air, causing Sherlock to struggle onto his feet. As the stranger stared at the ecstasy in front of him, he slowly lowered his head into the crevice of his neck, feeling his hot breath trace along Sherlock’s jugular, inhaling his heavenly scent.

Sherlock was powerless against his dominance. His breathing became hoarse and ragged as he struggled to hold himself up. His eyes became heavy, struggling to stay awake as he noticed his surroundings turn into a blur.

Sherlock could feel his heart thumping against his chest, trying to break free from this nightmare.

The blood gushing from his skull continued to stream down his face like wet paint. It leaked into his mouth as he gave a harsh cough, attempting to dislodge the vile liquid inhabiting his throat.

His weak, insufficient body acted like a puppet within his strangers grasp. The man flicked his tongue out, sliding it over Sherlock’s neck. His hot trail of saliva collided with his blood and ran down his skin.

As he pulled away to examine Sherlock’s blood, his pupils dilated, glimmering in indulgence from the mere sight of it.

“Beautiful isn't it? Human blood...The pure essence of what makes a human alive.”

 

_Thump.._

 

_Thump.._

 

_Thump.._

 

“I can hear your heart beating. I can hear your blood flowing as it pumps through your veins. _Your blood won’t stop flowing_. Do you know how frustrating it is?!”

Sherlock could hear his every word, but he couldn't find the energy to speak in return. He could feel his head burning and screaming as the words he wanted to speak pounded against his skull. But they could only remain trapped inside his thoughts.

The collar of Sherlock’s black trench-coat was suddenly met with clenched fists. They brought him in close to his body, lowering his head onto the strangers chest. His hand began to gently caress Sherlock’s face with ease, removing any curls which disturbed his precious face.

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. I’ll see you on the other-side.”

Nails that acted like claws dug into Sherlock’s skin. His body laid motionless within his arms as Sherlock could feel himself getting weaker as each second passed. He was barely conscious, but conscious enough to be aware of his surroundings.

Sherlock felt those familiar lips meet with his neck once again. They slowly but viciously made their way along his jugular vein, sucking hard as his tongue rolled against his bloodied skin, licking off any blood which remained on his flesh.

Two white fangs suddenly emerged from the man’s upper gum. He dragged his fanged mouth along his flesh, breathing in his scent for the final time that night.

Without hesitation the two fangs pierced Sherlock’s skin, gouging into his flesh. Sherlock shrieked in pain as he felt the venom shoot through his body like a drug. Blood oozed out of the two minor holes, trickling down his neck before eventually colliding with the ground below.

As the man rose to his feet he departed the scene as quickly as he had entered. Sherlock laid in place, slowly watching the man’s silhouette disappear inside the darkness.

He could feel his body changing, forming into a new life-form. The cells in his bloodstream were mutating as he struggled to cope with the pain. He whelped in agony as the poison slowly pumped through his veins, altering his DNA in preparation to become a new species.


	2. What is Happening?

How long had he lied there, praying to God-any God who would listen- to end it all, and let him sink into the death that he felt burning deep within his bones?

Sherlock didn't know. He had faded in and out of consciousness, each time his eyes closing against the black night, hoping it would be the last time.

But, he always woke. And though he felt death within his body, it never came to him.

If he wasn't going to die, then he had to get up; he had to go.

Sherlock struggled to his feet, dragged himself up from the blood soaked grass. He took notice that he was relatively blood soaked as well. The wound on his head, the wound on his neck (how had he injured his neck like that again?) were gone, but the blood remained; stained to his face and to his clothes.

He started to make his way out of the clearing he had followed the suspect into. Clearly the man had meant to use the small patch of urban forest to lose Sherlock, and clearly it had worked. He would have to call Lestrade once he made it home.

_Home._

The idea of being home had only pulsed through him like such a burning desire once before; after he had been away for so long; when he thought that John would be there. Waiting.. Of course he hadn't been, and of course he wouldn't be there now, but parts of him still were; a jumper he had forgotten in the back of his wardrobe, a mug he kept there for tea when he popped by for a visit, and a collection of books he had read so many times over, he left them to sit on the shelf.

And of course, his empty chair. Not even Sherlock's great mind could keep track of the hours he had spent sitting across from it, just watching the dust of the room settle on where John once sat.

Sherlock was nearly out, and back into the thicket of the forest, when a bird flew over his head. It was close; it had to have been. Sherlock could hear the beat of its wings, the rustle of each feather. It lasted for just a split second as the bird flew by, but it was enough to cause Sherlock to look up in search for it, and be met with a brilliant view of the sky he had never seen before.

Above him, the stars, the galaxies; every little thing about the heavens he had never bothered to know was shining bright and big; close enough for him to reach up and touch if he dared to. It was so brilliant and so beautiful, and Sherlock had never felt so small in his entire life. He hedged through the woods, ever aware of the sound that the fallen leaves were making against the sole of his shoes; the pop of broken pebbles like gunfire as he scraped along the dirt.

Forest eventually gave way to the city. Sherlock emerged from the tree line and immediately was assaulted by the lights and the sounds. They ripped through him, flooded his senses much the same way the information he kept inside his Mind Palace could if he didn't maintain it.

He could hear everything; all the meaningless conversations of the people he passed on the street, the shifting of gears in the cars on the street.

There was more though; He kept hearing a steady beat drum against his ears- a symphony of sound coming off every person, each rhythm a little different, but suddenly beautiful.

What the hell was happening to him? Drugged? Perhaps that man (there had been a man, yes? A strange, dark man) had drugged him.

He needed to get home. Everything would be alright once he was home.

 Baker Street came into view, and Sherlock made his way inside, and up the steps. He flipped the switch for the light, but it was too bright and it made his head ache on top of the heavy pain already pounding against his skull, and so he quickly flipped it back off.

Since tea was the good English gentlemen's solution to all problems, he filled the kettle and set it to boil. While he waited on his tea, he started the shower, as hot as he could stand it, and watched the blood and dirt swirl down the drain.

He stayed in the confines of the tile and the steam a bit longer than strictly necessary before turning off the spray and wrapping a towel around his waist. He writes away the condensation from the mirror, and took the first look at himself. There was no evidence that he had sustained a blow to the head, no bruises from a struggle with another person. In fact, there wasn't a scar on his body anywhere. The marks that used to spatter along the expanse of his chest were gone; the track marks on his arm had disappeared.

Sherlock didn't understand, and he hated that he didn't understand. He felt a frustration rise, and slammed a fist into the sink. The moment his knuckles met the porcelain, the moment his anger boiled up to the top, he felt a sharp pin prick at his gum, just under his upper lip. He immediately looked up into the mirror, and was met with his reflection once again, only it wasn't him, it couldn't be him, not with what he could only describe as fangs protruding from his mouth.

 What had happened to him that night?

 

  
  
  



	3. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the video I have made for this story. :) 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyyOq1dJoAY 
> 
> -firestorm26c

Sherlock continued to stare at his reflection. It had to be impossible. It couldn't be. Fangs? Where did they come from? There _had_ to be a reasonable explanation for all of this. Who was that man?

As Sherlock dropped his head into the palm of his hands he knew what he needed to do. He dug into the pocket of his trench-coat, pulling out his mobile phone. As he turned it on, the light of the screen blinded him. He looked away with squinted eyes, trying to avoid the irritation, but it wasn't working very well.

As he struggled to scroll through the names, he finally came to the name 'Lestrade.' The phone was held to his ear, waiting for him to pick up. He could feel the light burning his skin, irritating the corner of his eyes as it remained pressed against his ear.

"Sherlock?"

"L-Lestrade. I need...I need your help."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"There's something wrong with me. Something severely wrong. I need help."

"Alright. Just stay where you are. I'm coming."

Without a single word more, Sherlock hung up the phone, sliding the bright screen onto the benchtop. As soon as the light left his skin, his irritation faded.

The moon acted as his only light source. The only light which highlighted his distinguished features. He almost wished he was in complete darkness so he wouldn't have to face what he had become.

Sherlock stared back into the mirror, he gently caressed his cheek with his hand as he stared intently at his reflection. Fangs remained, showing their entirety. His delicate blue eyes had now developed an entirely new meaning as he noticed the redness and swelling take place on his tender skin.

Suddenly he heard the door to his apartment creak open, the wood scraping along the floor echoed throughout his body, infuriating him. It closely resembled the sound of nails on a chalkboard, clawing their way down before coming to a cruel halt.

Lestrade stood in the entrance way as he saw Sherlock's figure stagger out of the bathroom in the darkness. His shadow moved to the lounge before plonking himself down onto it, staring at Lestrade.

"S-Sherlock..is that you?"

"Come and sit down."

"I-In the dark?"

"Why? Does the dark frighten you, Inspector?"

"No. Of course not. Why would it frighten me?" Lestrade remarked, hesitantly gulping.

"Darkness is a mystery inside itself. You never know what could be lurking inside."

Lestrade's heart began to beat harshly against his chest in a repeated rhythm. Fear had finally caught up with him, invisible hands took hold of his throat as he struggled to speak.

"Please don't panic. Why don't you sit down. You might feel more comfortable." Sherlock gestured with his hand.

Lestrade hesitantly walked to the lounge, sitting down by Sherlock's side. Darkness continued to engulf them as they sat side by side.

"Sherlock...you sounded worried on the phone. You said something was wrong...You-"

"Shh. Don't speak. It's quite alright now. It was nothing...I simply overreacted."

"Sherlock..what's wrong? You're different…"

Upon hearing Lestrade's words, Sherlock found himself smirking. He could hear the beating of his heart as it's melody hypnotized him, putting him into a calmed state.

"I'm fine. Honestly I am. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Lestrade remained silent as he looked around the room. It's atmosphere fell to an eerie silence as his eyes unknowingly locked onto Sherlock's.

Sherlock tilted his head, staring intently at the veins on Lestrade's neck. He imagined the blood pumping through them, gushing through his body into his vital organs. Blood was the very thing that provided life. Without blood, life would be meaningless.

"No...no thank you. Sherlock...are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

"Well, that's a relief. Look...I need to go. You know how work is. I'll be in contact with you soon."

"Goodbye Lestrade. I assume you can see your own way out?"

"Of course."

Lestrade's footsteps echoed until he was met with the wooden door of the apartment. He walked out, closing the black wood behind him. The numbers on the door glistened as the moonlight shone down onto them. The streetlights highlighted the sidewalk for ease as Lestrade began walking over to his car, pulling out his phone.

"John..it's me. It's Greg Lestrade."

"Greg? Is everything okay?"

"John...it's Sherlock. There's something wrong with him. You need to get over here."

"Alright. I'll be there as soon as I can."

The line suddenly fell dead as John hung up on the other end. Lestrade shoved the phone into his pocket before peering over his shoulder, staring at the apartment block behind him.

Without a word the door to his car opened, he slid inside, starting the engine before speeding off down the street. As he looked inside his revision mirror he saw Baker Street growing more distant until eventually it disappeared.

Sherlock pulled back the curtain of his room, gazing out the window. He watched Lestrade drive away until he vanished into the night.

Shooting a snarl out the window he snatched his curtains shut as he snickered to himself. He found it amusing how quickly he had adapted to his new skin, his new form. The venom seemed to have settled down inside his body, leaving it's harsh consequence behind

Sherlock gently picked up the skull of his friend. He softly held it in his hands, gazing at it's beauty. Slowly he made his way over to the drawer in his living room, pulling out a wax candle before precisely planting it on-top of the brittle white bone he held in his hands.

The flame from his lighter began to melt the wax away. As it ran down the skull it eventually made it's way over the bone, taking a firm hold of any part it could so it could stand independently.

As Sherlock placed the flickering flame on the coffee table, it's light illuminated a small area of the room. There was just enough glow to see his near-by surroundings with ease whilst the rest of the room still remained hidden.

In Sherlock's eyes, _this_ was comfort. It was like an acquired taste in fine wine; The darkness, the flame on the coffee table dancing like a million fireflies, the skull of his friend he had never dared to touch.

It was the way his black trench-coat shrouded over the lounge; The way the flickering flame illuminated against his pale skin. It was the way John's chair came into plain sight as he harmoniously played his violin, hiding from his newly formed curse.

As his angelic melody continued to reverberate throughout the silence, the door to the apartment creaked open. Sherlock flinched at the deafening sound which only he could bare witness too.

"Hello John." Sherlock greeted in his baritone voice, peering up from his instrument.

"Sherlock...Is everything okay? Lestrade rang me..."

"Just as I told him. Everything is fine. Come and sit down. We can enjoy a nice cup of tea."

John reached for the light switch, turning it on far too quickly. As the brightness took over the room, destroying the darkness, Sherlock rapidly closed his eyes, straightening his posture as he looked in the opposite direction, facing away from John.

"John. Please turn off the light."

"Sherlock, you can't live like this. You already see minimum sunlight as it is. You're going to damage your eyes if you keep this up any longer. It's not healthy."

"I don't need your concern."

John bowed his head as he silently sighed to himself. Sherlock's eyes burned with irritation as he felt the heat slowly eat away at his flesh.

As John rose his head, he slowly made his way over to Sherlock. His sensitive eyes remained shut as John placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock..look at me..Please." John plead.

"I-I can't let you see me like this. _I won't_  let you see me like this."

John stared at Sherlock's swollen eyes as he gently caressed the tenderness with his thumb. Sherlock's hand held John's, indulging in his touch. It was the first time the two have made contact since he had left- Since he had left for Mary.

"Your skin is so cold….Sherlock-"

"Stop it. Don't touch me."

Sherlock snatched at John's hand, pushing it off his face, his eyes never opened but he could feel the tension between them flood into the air.

"Sherlock. What are you doing? Come on..Speak to me. That's all I'm asking. What the hell is happening with you?"

As they sat on the lounge together Sherlock inhaled a deep breath, trying to relax himself. He felt John's hand take a gentle hold of his, stroking it lovingly as he waited for Sherlock to respond to his actions.

Ever so slowly, Sherlock opened up his swollen eyes. As he turned his face, John's expression turned into shock as Sherlock faced him. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his sclera had no signs of white left in them as he stared at John intently.

John gazed into Sherlock's eyes for a moment, shock riddled across his face.

"S-Sherlock…"

"You're disappointed.."

"Well, I'm not going to lie ..I am a little. Drugs? Really?"

Sherlock looked at the burning candle on his coffee table, breaking all eye contact. He could hear John's heart beating against his chest, reverberating inside his ear-drums.

Fear had taken over John's body, becoming evident inside his chest. His heart-beat got louder and more distinct with every passing second. Fear had finally captured his blogger.

 _Fear._ The most indulgent blood there is.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't tell John the truth. _What would he think_? _How would he cope_? The answer is simple- He wouldn't.

Words spread like a virus. All it takes is one person to speak out of place and everything could come crashing down. And he couldn't risk that. If John wanted to speculate that he was taking drugs to cover up the real issue at hand. So be it.


	4. The First Degree of Seperation

John's fear smelled amazing. It radiated off from him like solar flares from the sun, and buried itself deep into Sherlock's nostrils.

But why was he afraid? He didn't know what Sherlock had become. He Didn't know that he wanted to pin him down and rip into his neck; break him open and watch the red stain his golden skin.

No, the fear wasn't him for himself, but was for Sherlock. John, as always, was being sentimental.

"You could have called me." John said, still holding onto Sherlock's hand, trying, fruitlessly, to rub some warmth into it. "I'll always come for you, Sherlock."

John's poor choice of words sent Sherlock on another tangent inside his mind; causing him to snort in some kind of amusement.

Sherlock had always wanted John-always- full stop. But now- Christ, it was near impossible to fight the lust rising within him. It had never been this strong before.

He was battling internally as to whether he wanted to feed from John or fuck him- -and he was hoping that the conclusion would end in a draw.

"Really? Is that why I've only seen you six times in the last two months? Four of which were for a case, and one because Mary nearly kidnapped me and forced me to have dinner with the two of you."

"I've had a difficult time being around you since you came back."

"And why is that, John?"

"I-I don't know." John said, quietly, and turned his face down and away from Sherlock, as if there was something on his face he was trying to hide, even in the darkness.

"But that's no excuse, Sherlock, for you to act the way you are- to do the things you're doing!

"It's every excuse!"  He suddenly shouted, ripping his hand away from John's. The contact had been nice, but his warmth was aggravating Sherlock's skin.

He sprung up from  the lounge "what does it matter anyway? You had to have known it would come to this sooner or later-with or without you. I'm not like anybody else."

The gravity of how true those words were now pulled at the pit of his stomach.

John stood, and puffed out his body the way he always did when he was angry; when he was trying to assert control. He pushed up to his toes, bringing himself eye level, or near to, with Sherlock.

"You are like everyone Sherlock-you shouldn't be, you're not meant to be-but you are just a common, everyday idiot."

He said it so calmly, as if it were a fact he had been carrying around with him since the day they met. That every 'amazing', every 'brilliant' that had fallen from his mouth had been a lie.

Sherlock growled something furious from inside himself, crowded John's body, and backed him into the small space next to the lounge.

Sherlock had John pinned against the wall. It wasn't a crazy notion really, for as strong as John was, Sherlock had been just as strong. As he watched the vein in John's neck throb underneath the thin, taut skin; He felt his heart beat out of John's chest and into his own. He soon realized something-he realized why John had looked away earlier; understood the shame he had been trying to cover.

Intertwined with John's fear were heavy spikes of arousal trying to cut through the tension that had been building between them, not just that night, but since Sherlock had come back. Even if he couldn’t see it in the same way. John’s pupils were blown wide, or the way his lips were parted, sucking in shallow breaths, he could smell it;  could almost taste it on his tongue.

 "John-" Sherlock whispered, his lips ghosting over that unbelievably full, thick vein; his teeth just testing it's breaking point, "you need to go."

"I'm not leaving you." John said with more focus and strength than his body was giving him credit for, as a knee slid between the space of Sherlock’s legs.

"You've been leaving me for a long time. Do us both a favour, and make it for good this time."

“Sherlock-"

"I mean it John. Walk away from me, walk away from this flat, and don't ever come back." He wildly pushed himself away from the wall, freeing John of the cage he had been trapped in.

"I'm no good for you anymore." He continued. "I likely never was."

"You don't mean that."

"I do mean it!"

He yelled, and spun around on himself. His chest was heaving up and down despite the fact that there no longer was any real breath inside of his lungs. He snapped his head up in John’s direction, and spoke softer, but no less aggressive, as he punctuated each of his words.

“Now, get out of my flat.”

He felt John look at him across from the darkness, holding on to whatever image Sherlock was painting for him, and then he felt his eyes slip away.

"Fine." He finally said, quietly, "If that's what you want."

"It is" Sherlock snapped.

John nodded, turned on his heels, and walked to the door. The sound that the knob made as John twisted it was excruciating. Sherlock bit down on his lip to keep him from crying out.  

He finally heard the door click closed, heard John's heavy footsteps down the stairs; more sad than angry.

Sherlock didn't have a choice. John couldn't know what had happened, and his mind so easily believed that Sherlock had turned back to drugs. What that said about their friendship, Sherlock didn't know, but it didn't matter much anyway. John was gone.

And Sherlock was hungry.

**Very hungry.**


	5. The First Red Rose

Sherlock laid on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling above. He could feel his starvation consuming him, swallowing him as if no other needs were existent for this period. Sherlock knew his needs were only going to grow as his thirst for blood flourished like a field of red roses. The thorns were as deadly as his fangs- inevitable pain soon to follow; needles simultaneously puncturing the tender flesh as blood shed in all the right ways, showing no remorse.

As Sherlock clambered onto his feet he peered out his bedroom window, looking onto the pathway outside of Baker Street. The crowds of traffic had now diminished leaving nothing but the faint howl of air blowing into the night sky.

The early hours of the morning had just hit 4:30am. Daylight lingered, threatening to replace the darkness with light. As Sherlock staggered out of his bedroom he gazed at John’s arm-chair for a moment before snarling at it.

Out of his peripheral vision he noticed the small flame on his coffee table slowly subside as it’s wax melted over the heated bone it depended on. As Sherlock continued to stare at his newly decorated friend, snickering at the melted wax taking over- his footsteps slowly made their way over to the coffee table, grasping the skull in his hand.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now..” He softly muttered as he lovingly stroked his friend. He used his fingertips to slowly caress the bone until the light of the candle faded, slowly disintegrating into nothing.

* * *

 As daylight made itself apparent, the sun hid behind the ominous clouds looming over Baker Street. Rain was on the verge but holding off for the time being as the sun’s rays glimmered through the clouds. Sherlock gazed up at the faint daylight, thinking day was never going to come. What felt like endless hours of night had finally subsided into glistening beams. The sun struggled to shine through, as the clouds in it’s path suffocated it. It’s solar flares were soon diminished, fading away as the wind blew harsher- causing more movement in the sky.

As Sherlock lazily backed away into the shadows, he snatched his curtain shut, blocking out any form of natural light. It doesn't matter how small or dim the light was, it still hurt, it still burnt as it seared into Sherlock’s tender flesh without regret.

He couldn't live like this. Choosing to be isolated is one thing, but forcing it upon someone was a completely different story. After a period of time Sherlock knew the isolation would eventually destroy him. His complex, mysterious brain would eventually “create” a friend to communicate with; a hallucination at the very most. And he wasn't going to wait for that to happen. He had to leave. Now.

* * *

 He needed to find others. Others like him. Where they reside remained a mystery- Like a black-hole in the centre of the Universe, swallowing anything that comes in contact with it. Would the end reward be worth it? God only knows. But he was given little choice.

The monster Sherlock saw in himself as he looked into the bathroom mirror caused him to cringe in guilt. If he couldn't even face himself, how were others going to perceive him?

He had one tiny strand of hope left inside of him. A strand of hope he needed to hold onto tightly with both hands and never let go. Sherlock knew it was going to be tough, but he also knew he needed that _one_ puny, insignificant human emotion to stay inside of him. He couldn't let this virus consume him whole. He needed something, _anything_ to keep his fires burning so he could continue to fight- Not just for himself but for John.

There was no excuse for failing him the way he did, leaving him behind without a single word of meaning was pitiful. Almost inexcusable.

Sherlock clasped his fists against the bathroom sink, bowing his head as he stared down the drain in the centre of the porcelain. He imagined a plug being pulled from his mind, draining away his mind palace- His hard drive. He needed to start fresh. He couldn't simply approach a new life-form with a brain full of human thought.- This was a chance for new information, useful information. If he wanted to blend in, these were the drastic precautions he was going to have to take.

As Sherlock hastily walked out of the bathroom he graciously slipped his black trench-coat on over his broad shoulders. As it’s length draped over his legs he promptly put his collar into it’s rightful position. The fabric hugged his neck, giving out false heat as it rubbed against his cold, pale skin.

His hands met with the door, gazing around the dimly lit room. This apartment was no longer his own. He couldn’t stay here. He wouldn't.

Without a single thought more, he opened the door. The wood creaked as it scraped along the floor. His hands traced the black wood, looking up at the numbers as they glistened back at him. He closed his eyes, composing himself. Without a single word he slammed the door shut, feeling his whole life perish within an instant.

As Sherlock sucked in a deep breath he spun on his heels, facing away from the black wood.His eyes remained closed until he could satisfactorily compose himself. Slowly he opened his eyes; He burrowed his hands into his pockets, looking at the busy London road ahead.

One foot stepped forward, meeting with the cemented ground below. As his shoe brushed along the hard ground, a flash of colour caught his eye. He slowly knelt down onto one knee, graciously picking up the fragile flower situated on his doorstep. It’s silky red petals brushed against Sherlock’s skin as it’s thorns threatened to pierce his delicate hands.

 _Roses_. The flower of passion, desire and lust. But it’s also the only flower which can represent pain, hurt and consequence- The flower that can disguise itself in plain sight.

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**


	6. Suck it and See

Sherlock ripped the flower from its stem, and dropped the green, thorny reed onto the sidewalk below him, stepping over it, and leaving it behind as he continued to walk the sidewalks. The bloom he kept cupped in his hand; ran his thumb over the delicate flesh. As far as roses went, there was nothing unusual about it. The shape was quite perfect for a flower that had just blossomed into its full maturity, and the scent earthy and light. But there was something strange to it, a smell transferred from fingertips onto the petals that he recognized, but couldn't place. It was masculine like birch bark, and crisp like the bite into an Apple. And underlying it all was the same smell of death that Sherlock carried with him.

He snarled at the thought and closed his fist tight around the flower, suffocating it. He squeezed until it's cell walls started to break down, it's fiber unwavering. He squeezed until there was nothing left but red ash that he let float away on the breeze.

As he walked, he sifted through the information in his head, sorting what he wanted to keep in his Mind Palace, and what he wanted to store away, deep into his mind. For instance; music. He would be alone now, and there would be lots of time he could fill with the sounds, so music he would keep. There was also his extensive knowledge on ash; tobacco, leaf, even human. He hardly saw a reason to need that now, so he would store it away someplace else. And what about the people who milled about inside the walls and around the grounds of the palace; Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson; Mycroft? He would keep them, but he would lock them up, and hold the key to only be used when he needed a reminder about his humanity.

And then there was John.

It would be the perfect opportunity to forget him; delete him, start over without the soul breaking knowledge that John Watson once existed in his life, but no longer did, and never would again.

While Sherlock struggled with the deletion of the only person who had ever kept him right; kept him good, he realized that his thoughts had led him to a flat he most often tried to avoid.

Sherlock looked through the window of the flat John had moved into with Mary while Sherlock was away. It was nice, much more modern and bright than Baker Street ever was. He was careful to stay in the shadows so that he would go unnoticed as he stood and watched.

The two of them, John and Mary, together on the lounge, Mary's head resting on John's shoulder, her blonde hair tickling at the edge of his jawline. They were talking, but Sherlock couldn't make out what. All he knew was that John was laughing, that he was happy. He was home.

Sherlock watched Mary get up from the couch, and bend over him to leave the sitting room with a lingering kiss on his mouth, and a hold on his hand that lasted until their fingertips couldn't reach one another anymore.

When she was gone, the smile on John's lips faded away into nothing; not a frown, not a pout; just nothing. He let out a heavy sigh that Sherlock could see by the slow rise and fall of his chest, and chanced a glance out of his window. Sherlock jumped back further into the shadows, but he kept watch of the creases in John's forehead, the small sparkle in his eyes.

He couldn't delete that face; he wouldn't. He couldn't never have the opportunity to close his eyes and see John behind the lids, or pass him on the street and reduce him down to nothing than what he could deduce about him, not know all the intricate little details that made John Watson who he was; that made John Watson his.

Sherlock couldn't watch anymore, and he sulked away, back on his path to wherever it was he was going. It seemed that his body was doing the navigating rather than his mind as he ended up underneath a section of bridge where he he knew some of his homeless network to frequent. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his great coat, and hunched his head into himself as he strolled through the small village of people, passed their fires , lot for the night that had come upon them, and their carts of collections.

He could feel one set of eyes on him; following him as he strolled along. He could make out the shadow of a slim figure to the left of him, and he stopped just as he reached a barrel of fire, and turned to catch her on the other side.

It was a woman named Rebecca with milk chocolate skin and dark curls that spiraled down over her shoulders. She had gotten him some information on a case involving stolen diamonds several months ago.

"Why are you following me?" he asked her.

"You're different than the last time I saw you Mr. Holmes." she said, her eyes catching on the flame of the fire between them, and glistening dark and primal.

"I am."

She smiled. "Still pretty as ever, though." she reached over and ran a finger along the line of his cheek.

She didn't seem surprised at how cold he was, in fact she seemed to be just as cold as she stroked his face like he was a delicate bird she had brought out from a cage. And why should she be afraid when she was the same as he-  _Vampire_.

"I never knew." He said quietly.

She laughed, and finally lifted her finger from his skin and brought it back down at her side. Sherlock hated the sound her snickering made as it hit his ears. He hated not knowing anything about what had happened to him. All that he knew was what he had read in books as a child or from myths he had studied from the Old Countries; a little bit of information from films he had sat through, but the vampire legend changed with each generation who took a renewed interest in it; it was hard to know what was fact and what was fiction. The very fact that he existed as he did now had been fiction to him just days earlier.

"Of course you didn't" Her laughter subsided, and she poked a finger into his thin figure, "you need to eat."

"I'm not hungry." he said, petulant as a child, and she laughed again.

"Yes you are. You're starving."

She reached out for Sherlock's hand and pulled at him to follow her down the dark and dirty street.

"It won't do you any good to treat your new body the way you treated your human one." she continued as they got further away from the more populated area of the under-bridge. "In many ways you're stronger now than before, but your strength is dependent upon your blood intake, otherwise, you're just a weak sack of nothing."

She stopped once they had reached the darkest part of the street; lit only by the moon and a flickering street lamp. He knew areas like this well; he had spent time in the non-existent shadows, lying and looking up at the stars in the night sky through small cracks between cement. It was where one came when they didn't want to be found, when they didn't care about the death that was creeping up on them.

"Not them." she said. "You need someone who is healthy, someone is still capable of feeling thrilled and afraid."

She took his hand again, and led him just a few meters down until they had come out of the skid row and onto a London sidewalk.

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Hunting."

She turned back to where he trailed slightly and smiled, before looking ahead again. Her tight curls bounced against her head as she nearly skipped through the sidewalk.

"What's your preference Mr. Holmes; man or woman?"

"Uh; woman." he said, without really thinking. He didn't think it made a difference anyway.

"Good. That one right there, then; near the alley on her phone. Tell her you've lost your cat."

He laughed, "My cat; really?"

"Just do it. Unless you want to starve to death."

"Fine."

Sherlock walked across the street and slid up next to her. Acting was never a difficult for him, and he easily slipped into the role, even if he thought it was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous; needing  _help_  from someone else,  _relying_  on someone else like he was a child again.

He looked around for a few seconds, making a show of lifting up empty crates and peering behind the rubbish bins to make sure that she noticed he was there and that he was searching for something. She was nearing the end of her phone conversation, and looking over at him. Sherlock had already picked up that she was a librarian, and found more comfort from the words in a book than in the humans around her. She was single, but she shared a flat with another woman; a friend from childhood, or maybe just from Uni, which hadn't ended long ago for her. Her red hair came from a box, but the rest of her was natural, and quite pretty if Sherlock could be trusted to make a judgement of the female form.

"Excuse me?" her voice cut through, "have you lost something?"

"Yes, I'm afraid my cat, Harold has run out. We live in those flats just above the market, and he sometimes gets the old door open and runs down the stairs. They keep their door open until close, and he just, well, he just made a break for it."

"Would you like some help?"

"Oh, no. No. I couldn't ask that of you. It's getting late-"

The woman smiled, bright and kind. "Don't be silly. We'll find Harold together."

It was of her own accord that she turned down into the alleyway, saying that when her own cat, Mittens, got loose, he liked to hide in the dingy corners. They walked around a few minutes, searching for the non-existent cat when Sherlock heard Rebecca whisper into his ear.

"Now." She said. "Oh, and Sherlock, since you've not eaten in almost three days, and you're new as it is; you're going to have to drink her all."

"What?" he asked, turning around to face her.

"That's the price for being an idiot, and not feeding."

Sherlock sighed, "What am I supposed to do?"

"You're strong, aren't you? Hold her arms down, pin her against the wall with your legs."

Sherlock did as we was told. He grabbed the woman by her wrists and held them down at her sides. She tried to pull away, and screamed. Sherlock pressed against her with his hip, and braced his knee over one of hers so that she couldn't move. She was still struggling, but had at least stopped screaming. In order to get at the vein pumping wildly in her neck, he had to let go of one of her hands, which promptly started tearing at the hair on his head.

Rebecca was right there, snatching it away, and speaking slowly, "Fighting is only going to make it harder sweetheart. I'm afraid he's new and doesn't know what he's doing. Just relax."

The woman had her hand freed, and she made no motion to use it in her defense again. Sherlock tipped her head to the side. He could hear how fast her heart was beating, and he could smell the fear coming off from her. His fangs descended on their own as he inched closer to her neck, and finally they met her skin. He knew that he had to, though he didn't want to. It wasn't the blood; no, that smelled enticing, almost intoxicating as it circled through her body, but it was the life attached to the blood. For all that Sherlock faulted society, he had no desire to bring harm to them; in fact, his adult life had been filled with the exact opposite. While he claimed that it was only about the puzzles and the games, there was a piece of it that was about helping when no one else could.

And now, he was just a centimeter away from taking away this life. She wouldn't show up to her work at the library the next day. Her boss would call her flat, and her flatmate would answer and say she hadn't seen there all night. They wouldn't waste any time in contacting NSY, because she was a woman of pattern; a creature of habit- she never so much as used the loo at a different time of day than the previous one. They would search for her; maybe even Lestrade would, and they might find her, they might not; but it didn't matter, because either way she was going to be gone forever, and Sherlock was going to be the one who did it.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, and pressed his fangs through her skin. He heard a sensuous popping sound as he broke through, and then the blood started to flow. It spilled out from her and into Sherlock's mouth like a geyser. He caught it on the flat of his tongue, closed his mouth around her like he would on a lover. It was heaven; it was ecstasy. What should have been disgusting and vile tasted better than the fresh honey he had sucked from the combs at his aunt's farmhouse when he was a child.

He slowly felt the woman in his arms go limp, heard her cries dissipate and eventually disappear as she grew weaker. While her body hurdled towards death, the taste in the blood changed; it was thick and earthy; the last vestiges of her life spilling over into him.

 


	7. Salvation is the Edge of Happiness

The last essence of her life came out in spurts. Her rich, thick blood leaked into Sherlock’s mouth as he pulled his two needle-like fangs out of her jugular vein. He could feel the wet sensation running down his chin as her body collapsed within his arms; her eyes lost all meaning of life as they sat idle, staring into the unknown abyss which laid beyond.

Her thick, red hair became intertwined within his delicate touch; skin shuddering from the mere sensation of it. Her hair remained flowing within his grasp; fingers separating the particles binding them together. Her deceased hair cells reminded him of the very blood seeping into his own tender flesh.

Rebecca’s hands took hold of Sherlock by the base of his shoulders. She gently began easing his adrenalin pumped body off the lifeless red-head as he struggled to detach himself from his first pure-blood victim.

“Sherlock...that’s enough now. She’s drained.” She spoke, using the padding of her thumb to wipe away the excess blood smeared across his face due to inexperience.

“You done good. How do you feel?” She questioned further, taking hold of Sherlock’s bloodied hands.

“Exhilarated.”

She chuckled at his remark, letting go of his hands. “It’s a beautiful feeling...isn't it? The taste is divine. But it shouldn't be something you grow accustomed too.”

With retracted fangs Sherlock shot her a vicious glare, feeling his addiction swell up inside of him. He could already feel the pureness of the blood colliding with his own- forming into one. The urge for more blood overthrew him like a dagger being hurled by an assassin- it pierced his skin, making him cry out in pain.

He found his body on the ground, laying limp at Rebecca’s feet. His black trench-coat shrouded the cold cement underneath him as he stared blankly into the distance.

The cold air howled through his hair as he felt fingers intertwine themselves within his darkened strands; they clawed into every particle, compelling him onto his knees as he wailed in pain.

Meeting with Rebecca’s gaze, he found himself mesmerized within the galaxies of her irises. They swirled like the milky-way in our solar system; obliterating into a thousand stars as the aqua inside broke-down into a new life-form.

She showed Sherlock her entity as a whole- She bared wild fangs, flicking her tongue out agonizingly slow; a hint of pleasure came at the end of each hiss as her wet tongue traced along the surface of her jagged needles.

As Sherlock’s eyes stared deep into her soul, he could see new information pouring out of them as he helplessly watched in awe. Her pain was so distinct, hatred so clear...but her desire was so benign.

Her claw-like fingers dug into the veins of his neck, pressuring his skin to near breaking-point. She lowered herself onto the cold cement, sitting on the knees of her legs. Her cold breath loomed over his taut skin as he pulled away- breaking all contact.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Sherlock agonizingly asked, closing his blue eyes.

He felt her body move in closer to his frozen limbs; hands traced along his non-existent goosebumps as she seductively took hold of his waist.

“I have been waiting for this for a _very_ long time…” She began, clawing the fabric of his white t-shirt. “It’s not the fact that you reek of human blood...It’s the fact that I’m going to be the one who teaches you how to survive.”

“Y-You’re going to do what?” Sherlock surprisingly questioned, directing full attention onto her animalistic face.

“You won’t be able to survive out here alone. I’m offering you my help. I’ll teach you everything I know.”

“What’s there to learn? When I’m hungry all I need to do is find a victim like tonight and replicate the stages of progression.”

Rebecca’s laugh filled the cold night air as she slowly rose onto her feet, leaving Sherlock to gaze up at her towering body as she leaned over him.

“No. You can’t kill people anymore Sherlock. In my clan...we feed off animals. Their blood quite frankly tastes repulsive. But it’s what we have to do to survive in the busy city of London.”

Her footsteps walked across the cement as she stared up at the moon shining down onto them.“Vampires wouldn't last a day behind bars. Do you think just because we’re Vampires it gives us a free pass to murder who we please? The answer is no.”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn't mean to-”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a perfectly logical assumption... And I know...you want more.”

“P-Please...just...one more-”

“No. I can’t do that. If it was my choice your first kill would of been an animal. Once you get the taste for pure-blood, you’ll never be able to scrub that scent clean. A substitute will never be enough for some.”

Rebecca let out a sigh before spinning on her heels to face the brick wall behind them, she could smell the human blood lingering off Sherlock’s body as she tried her utmost to ignore it’s heavenly aroma.

“We need to go- somewhere quiet. You need rest. We all do.”

Sherlock struggled to his feet, trembling became apparent as Rebecca’s arms supported him; walking him out of the dingy alleyway.

The lights and sounds assaulted him as they walked along the sidewalk, Rebecca seemed to be used to this- So it didn't bother her much. As they walked along the side-walk in search for a cab, Sherlock hunched himself inside his large coat, hiding his face from the irritation society brought upon him.

“Shh. It’s okay. We’re almost there.” Rebecca whispered reassuringly, gently rubbing Sherlock’s back as she escorted him down the path.

As they continued walking, Sherlock could feel himself becoming uneasy; just at that moment a black cab swerved to the curb. They paused for a moment- staring at it. Without hesitation, Sherlock shoved Rebecca out of his way- as he got inside the black vehicle he felt Rebecca’s presence following close behind.  

Sherlock’s head rested against the window of the car, trying to rest his body from the noise. He heard Rebecca mumble something to the driver as his eyes met with the tarred road. The engine came to life in an instant, driving down the highway at a moderate speed.

* * *

 The cab came to a gradual stop, pulling up outside of an abandoned house. It sat on a grassy knoll as the moonlight distinguished all it’s features- The wood of it’s exterior was nearing the end of it’s lifespan; planks fell from the building, struggling to stay attached. The non-existent windows were boarded shut, allowing no-one to see in nor out.

The cab driver glared out his window, looking at the old ramshackle situated on top of the grassy hill. He chuckled at himself, directing full attention onto Rebecca as she stared at him in silence.

“Come on...you can’t live here..” He snicked.

“Oh...but we do.” Rebecca eagerly replied, smirking mischievously at her cab driver.

She slowly retraced her fangs, leaning forward as the man’s face dropped in horror. He fumbled the keys in his hands as panic struck, causing Rebecca to hiss in intimidation. She crawled into the passenger seat, watching her victim push his body into the corner of his interior; pupils dilated in terror as he watched the supernatural being loom over him. Her arms met with either side of his body, entrapping his scared, delicate being underneath her.

As her fangs met with his pulse his escalated breathing made the circumstances all the more satisfying; his heart rate pounded-transmitting fresh blood into every obsolete corner, blood gushed through his plump veins, forcing them to throb in undeniable desire.  

Her fangs finally broke through his skin; he wailed in pain as he felt the two needles seemingly pull themselves in and out of his pulse. She stopped to swallow the lavish tasting liquid as it slid over her taste-buds, trickling down her throat with ease.

The more she sucked out of him, the fainter he became- his skin turned pale, body weak, as he gradually slid down his drivers seat. Rebecca captured the man within her grasp- slowly lowering his head onto her lap.

With no remorse her mouth continued sucking, draining the life out of his body until he slowly closed his eyes, falling into a deep coma.

Sherlock eased his way into the front seat, fangs baring wildly as he stared at the various blood stains spattered across the vehicle. He crawled beside Rebecca, fangs touching the unoccupied side of the man as he gouged them in.

For the second time that night, the taste caused mayhem within his body. His strength grew to an impossible level as he struggled to keep the man within his possession in one piece-Sherlock felt like ripping the tender, succulent meat from his bones until their was nothing left of him. His blood stained every particle of his body, which drove Sherlock crazy.


	8. It's not Adapting. It's Losing.

Sherlock heard Rebecca's voice from beside him, but it was distorted by the drunken stupor he had drank himself into. He took a moment to remember himself (it was scary how quickly he was forgetting the man he had been just days before), and let the fog lift away.

"Shit!" She was saying, and wiping the blood of the driver away from her mouth. "Shouldn't have done that. It was one thing to let you with that woman, but-" she stopped herself short, and looked down at the lifeless man between them, and then to a photograph he had taped to the dash of the cab.

Sherlock watched her eyes, so vindictive and animalistic just a moment ago, soften back into the woman he had known her to be. "You feel bad for killing him." He said; a statement; not a question.

"Of course I do. Being a vampire doesn't mean you don't have to be human. Of course, there are some who would disagree with that." Her eyes quickly slipped out of the cab and up toward what must have been the attic of the abandoned home where a dim light flickered against the antique, stained glass. He could see a shadow; just a faint outline of someone standing around the frame and looking down at them.

It was a quick gesture, but Sherlock took stock of it; took notice of the way her voice softened with a spot of fear before she turned her attention away.

"Like I said," She continued, "We don't feed on humans. It's not practical for one, and for another; feeding from animals allows you to keep hold of a bit of your humanity, which I can see leaving you bit by bit."

Rebecca reached out and wiped away some of the blood from Sherlock's lips. Her thumb against him sent a wave through his body. It was something akin to arousal, but so much stronger.

Despite the common acceptance that he was a virgin, Sherlock, in fact was not. And if those privy to the fact of that knowledge assumed it was because of the curious scientist Sherlock had always been, and marked it as just another experiment on his list, they would be wrong.

The fact of the matter is that, until you find the last person you are ever to sleep with, sex is always an experiment; finding out what you like and what you don't like; who you like, and what they like. It's nothing but collecting data and then manipulating that data for your own pleasure.

So, while sex did not  _alarm_  Sherlock, he was a bit confused as to why he had any interest in Rebecca, because he had ruled out an attraction to women shortly after his first time at the age of sixteen.

As if she could read his mind, or at least his face, Rebecca smiled, and brought her blood covered thumb to her mouth, and licked the red stain away. "Heightened sex drive. You'll get used to it."

"Right. Lovely." He said.

Rebecca laughed, and opened the door of the cab. "Dawn isn't far off, we should get inside. Though, we don't have to sleep during the day, most of us do."

Sherlock followed her out of the cab, leaving the man inside of it to be dealt with later.

On the outside, the house was nearly dilapidated; the wood as rotted and dead as the two creatures who stood out on the front porch, but the inside was much different.

When Rebecca turned the key and opened the door, Sherlock stepped in behind her to a dim world of warm gold and maroon, and a clean, crisp white. There was furniture passed a foyer. It looked new and well taken care of. There was also a sitting chair, a Television, and tea cups scattered along the coffee table. It was like many of the homes Sherlock had visited on a case; not exactly where he thought a nest of vampires would live.

He followed her through the lounge room and into the kitchen. Two men who had been sitting at the table, drinking from cups, immediately jumped up and crowded into Rebecca and Sherlock' space, smelling them, and nearly darting their tongue and fangs out to taste them.

"You had a human." One of them said against Sherlock's neck. He had short, cropped blonde hair, and his accent was American.

"It was a mistake." Rebecca said, pulling the blonde off from Sherlock, and pushing the other man away from her. "Initiating the new guy, and got a little carried away."

"This him?" The blonde asked.

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes." She said with a smile on her face, "an if you'll excuse us, he had to get some rest."

Rebecca took Sherlock gently by the hand, taking him out of the kitchen.

Right, so, it's us and Master." Rebecca said, as she led him down a hallway once they had gotten upstairs.

Sherlock snorted, "Master?"

"Yes. He comes and goes, and on occasion we do a favour for him."

"Favour?"

"Its better you don't know about it now. When he's ready for you to know, you will."

"Is he the figure I saw in the attic?"

"Yes. But don't go up there."

"You're telling me to stay away from something?"

"I am, and you will listen to me on this. I know you've never lived by the rules, Sherlock, but live by this one."

Rebecca let go of her grip on Sherlock's coat, and continued to a room at the end of the hall. She opened the door and led Sherlock inside.

"This is yours." She said.

The bedroom was quite comfortable with a large and plush bed in the center, made up with black sheets and duvet. There was a bookcase with candles, and old, broken ceramic figures. There was also a small stack of books, the spines facing outward. Sherlock ran his fingers across their titles; they were books he was quite familiar with, not just because he had read them many times over, but they were his, taken from his bookcase and set upon this one.

More than that, in the wardrobe, as he reached to open the golden handle, was filled with his shirts, and his trousers, even his shoes were lined neatly against the floor, and there was an empty hanger in the center of the rod, waiting for him to hang up his coat.

Sherlock swirled around, still taking in the room. His eyes stopped on the nightstand, empty save for a gold lamp, and a vase that held a single red rose.

"You were expecting me." He said.

"Yes." Her voice was soft, almost shameful. "But I can't tell you anymore, so please don't ask."

"Don't ask?!" Sherlock had been holding back all of the anger that was rising inside of him; all of the frustration and sadness; every emotion, he had been trying to push back down and pretend it wasn't there in an effort to adapt and move on, but standing there, in a bedroom he didn't know, filled with his things, he just couldn't anymore.

"My life was taken away from me!" he yelled, leaning in close to Rebecca's face, "Everything I was, everything I had fought to come back to was ripped away and replaced with this- with this monster! And you're telling me not to ask why?"

Rebecca reached out and placed calming hands on his shaking shoulders, "That's exactly what I'm telling you, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry." He repeated, his voice a little calmer, but the anger still burning in his eyes, "Because that makes everything better, doesn't it?"

He pushed away from her, and threw himself down on the bed.

"No. It doesn't make anything better, but everything will be okay. Eventually."

She bent down over him, and placed a soft kiss to the center of his forehead. "Sleep Well, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat in the silence of the bedroom once Rebecca had left. He slipped out of his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, and un-tucked it from his trousers. He pulled out his mobile, and sifted through the numerous text messages he had been ignoring. First, from Lestrade:

* * *

_Sherlock, I know you aren't feeling yourself, but I've got a case you might be interested in. Something to keep your mind going? -Lestrade_

_John said you kicked him out of your flat? What is going on with you? -Lestrade_

_Where are you? -Lestrade_

 

And then several dozen from John:

 

_I'm sorry I acted the way that I did the other night. I was just surprised to say the least; scared to say the most. JW_

_Please answer me, Sherlock. Even if it's just to tell me to piss off. Greg hasn't heard from you either. I'm just worried. JW_

_Honestly, stop being such a child, and answer me! JW_

_I'll call your brother. JW_

_I'm doing it. I'm calling Mycroft. JW_

_Sherlock- Please. JW_

* * *

And finally, there was a text from Mycroft, simply telling him to give him a ring at his earliest convenience.

Sherlock found himself calling his brothers number, before even giving it any real thought.

"I thought you would hold out a bit longer than this." Mycroft's voice said on the other side of the line after two and a half rings.

"I wasn't holding out. I've been busy."

"Yes, so busy you've ignored your friends and scared them half to death. The Detective Inspector, and John both think you're using again. Please tell me that they're wrong."

"They are."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, but Sherlock could almost hear him thinking, as clearly as he heard the buzz from the television Mycroft had on, no doubt with footage from the cameras he placed in Sherlock's flat.

"I believe you." He finally said.

"I'm not too concerned with your belief in me, Mycroft."

"Yes, I know. But something is wrong, isn't it?"

"Wrong doesn't exactly begin to cover it. Just know that I've left Baker Street, and won't be returning- You can do with it as you please. I've also left consulting; please inform Lestrade."

"Sherlock-" There was a twinge of worry in Mycroft's voice, but Sherlock refused to admit that he heard it. "I know we have our differences, but if you're in trouble; you should know there's nothing I wouldn't do to help you."

"Big Brother can't save me anymore, Mycroft."

"Sherlock-" he said again.

"Also, if you could tell John- tell John that I'm sorry for leaving him again. And that I don't believe I'll be returning this time."

"Sherlock, honestly, do tell me what's wrong."

"Goodbye, Mycroft." He said softly.

Sherlock hung up his phone, and quickly turned it off. He let it fall down onto the bed. Tomorrow he would destroy it, but tonight, he would rest.

 


	9. The Scarlet Letter

The way the wind blew across his face was exhilarating. His already adrenalin pumped body ran through the rough terrain as his mind concentrated on one thing-  _Food_.

His agile run came to a sudden halt, stopping in the middle of the green paddock. The long green grass gushed around his ankles; the breeze blew his curls out of his face as he examined his surroundings with intent.

"Where are you?.." He hissed into the air.

He retracted his fangs without hesitation- It was hard to believe that only two weeks ago these were the same fangs that Sherlock once despised- But they weren't anymore.

Sherlock has learn't how to embrace these weapons of destruction. And he has. But somewhere inside that obsolete body of his he needed more- He couldn't just simply  _embrace_  them anymore- He needed to nurture them.

A scuffle emitting from the nearby bush piqued Sherlock's interest. He slowly approached it, feet running through the long grass as he tried to remain unnoticed (a skill he was still evidently trying to master.)

The way his hands separated the ferns for a clear entrance made the rabbit inside bounce in panic. He peered over the bush, watching the trapped critter's trepidation. As he stealthed his way over the bush, he hissed at the creature in intimidation. It blankly looked up at his fierce face, anxiously trying to find a way out of it's isolation.

Without hesitation Sherlock viciously leaped into the shrub, taking hold of the anxious critter dwelling inside. He held it firmly within his grasp as it struggled to escape his fearsome wrath.

Sherlock could feel it's breathing evidently change into harsh, ragged pants as it's small heart beated within Sherlock's hand; panic was riddled across it's face as it squirmed, begging for mercy.

Sherlock stared at the helpless creature for a moment- the human side of him wanted to release it back into the wild, set it free. But he had to stop thinking like that. He was a Vampire now and nothing was going to change that.

His cold breath brushed against the animal's fur as his fangs traced along it's delicate neck. He inhaled against it's coat, breathing in every ounce of fear that radiated from it.

"I'll make it quick. I promise." He whispered subtly inside the creature's ear.

As painlessly as he could, he gouged his fangs inside the creature's neck. The way the creature jerked inside his firm hold made Sherlock's essence of humanity seep through. His brain was finally betraying him-cursing him with the emotion of guilt.

He continued to regretfully suck the life out of this small, innocent animal. It's eyes became fainter, life eventually leaving them altogether. As Sherlock detached his fangs from his life-support he watched the motionless creature lay idle within the palm of his hands- death now being a consequence of his actions.

He gently placed the rabbit down onto the ground before arising onto his feet; he felt a certain type of sadness swell up inside of him- a sadness he has never felt before. He could hear John's voice nagging at him in disgust- He was disappointed. Quite right too.

He clawed his way out of the shrub, fighting his way through the ferns. As he gazed into the distance he saw Rebecca running up to him. Her brown hair swayed with her every movement, stopping once she had reached Sherlock.

She took hold of Sherlock's hand, looking into his eyes as she spoke "Sherlock..you done it. You killed your first animal. By yourself. Not too shabby."

Sherlock let out a light-breathed snicker, peering over his shoulder at the dead animal behind him. His face soon dropped to heart-ache, evidently becoming visible in his expression.

"Sh-Sherlock...what's wrong?" Rebecca questioned, taking a gentle hold of his face- directing his full attention onto her.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me. I can  _hear_  when someone is nervous. I can also see it. What's wrong?"

 

Sherlock stared at Rebecca; her eyes represented fire and ice as he stared deeply into her soul- gazing into nothingness.

He snatched her hands from his face, pushing her away. He strode across the green field, letting out a vicious snarl; his black trench-coat flapped against the force of the wind as Rebecca helplessly looked on from the distance.

The breeze whispered her name as she looked down at her feet. She crouched down onto one knee, scooping up the flower which laid idle in the green meadow. It's red petals threatened to disintegrate from mere touch as she stared at it intently- wind threatening to cast it away.

"I know you're here.." She called out, rising onto her feet, firmly holding the thorny stem in her hand.

Her face darted around her surroundings. Unknown blood seeped into the palm of her hands, staining the thorns she held in red.

"I'll scare you.." The mysterious voice projected from the everlasting shadows.

Rebecca took a step forward; she saw the dark silhouette hiding within the darkness, watching her every move.

"No you won't. I know it's you. Come out.." She prompted, gradually moving closer to the darkness.

His figure stepped further back inside the obscurity of the shadows, letting his entire body get swallowed in an instant. "The rose was not intended for you…"

"I know….don't worry..I'll give it to him." Rebecca reassured, slowly backing away from the scene.

* * *

His footsteps slowly made their way up the creaking, wooden stairs. He looked at the obscure door in-front of him; a door which held an ominous energy on the other-side. His hand gently caressed the wood before slowly pushing it open.

As his presence entered the room he was met with glowing candles, illuminating the area he stood in. The fire burned fierce and strong; wax evidently seeping into the wooden floor below. As Sherlock moved in closer to the heat, his face burned from the intensity it held within. It seared into his frozen flesh like a hot iron rod, leaving behind one fateful scar to remind him of this very night.

His body moved closer to the large wooden oak desk ahead; it had various objects scattered across it's surface. There were notes written in the beautiful art-form of calligraphy, writing feathers sat side by side accompanied by vials of black ink.

As Sherlock's hand's traced the scattered paper, he delicately ran his fingers through the graceful feathers laying nearby. Their essence against his skin was so soft. He shuddered at the mere sensation of it.

As his fingers ran along a peculiar document- he stopped. He saw a flash of red beam into his eyes as he gazed underneath the paperwork. He gingerly took hold of the familiar item, tenderly holding it within his grasp; the nearby candles glowed with passion as they illuminated it's beauty.

He lowered his arm by his side, letting the red flower drop to the floor below; he watched as it's pain and beauty left his grasp, evidently breaking upon impact.

He remained staring at the scattered paperwork- fury gradually eating away at his non-existent soul. He clenched his fists along the rim of the table, screaming out in an outburst of pain.

Uncontrollably he found himself thrashing his hands wildly against the objects. He knocked them to the floor as ink trailed along the strong oak, destroying anything in it's path. It gradually ran off the wood, cascading to the floor in agonizing drips.

Sherlock's face remained serious. He stared at the wooden desk as it's now non-existent documents revealed what laid hidden underneath their ominous properties.

His eyes widened in shock as he took a step back. His eyes were met with hundreds of red roses- concealed. They all lingered underneath his paperwork, previously being invisible to the naked eye.

 


	10. I'm Alive and I'm Inside You

Sherlock picked up one of the roses and held it between his fingers. He caressed the shift petals with his thumb absent mindedly while he sifted through the papers with the other hand. He had been angry the first time the flower appeared on his doorstep, angry when there had been one waiting for him in his room, but each time he destroyed one, another was left in its place, and through the weeks Sherlock let them be, and when one died, he looked forward to its replacement, mostly because he wanted to see who was leaving them, but he never did.

Each time a rose was left, Sherlock's bedroom smelled the same as the first; birch, apple and death. It smelled very much like the room he was standing in now.

Sherlock heard the creak of floorboards behind him, heard the creasing of expensive leather as a pair of shoes crossed the threshold and into the room with him.

"I left you one in the forest, Sherlock, but you can take any of those as well. They're all for you."

A voice; a familiar, cold, and lyrical voice hit his ears, and sent a wave right through his spine.

"Moriarty." Sherlock whispered, the name stinging as it fell from his tongue.

"Oh, good, you remember me. I was so afraid you might have forgotten."

Sherlock turned to face him. He looked the same as he remembered; styled and groomed perfectly with dark grey trousers, and a black shirt, cut into a V with his coat draped over his arm.

"It wasn't for a lack of trying." Sherlock said.

"And doesn't that just make me tingle all over? You trying to get me out of your head, but failing. Tell me Sherlock, how many nights was I in your sleep?"

"Too many."

"And how many nights were they dreams rather than nightmares?" He asked, stepping up to Sherlock and leaning his face in close.

"You're nothing but a nightmare, Moriarty."

"Oh." he pouted, "You know how to sweet talk a man, don't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, already tired of Moriarty's inane babble.

"So, tell me, were you dead the whole time or is this a new lifestyle choice for you?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty quirked up the corner of his lips, "Oh, you are funny. I was quite alive during our time together, and I quite truly shot myself in the head. Some time after you jumped, which, bravo by the way, I was turned."

"More afraid of death than you thought?"

"I'm not afraid of it, Sherlock. I just found another way to manipulate it to my liking."

Moriarty folded his hands behind his back, and started to pace around the room before sliding up behind Sherlock, and pressing his nose against the back of his neck, where dark curls met with his nape.

"And what of me? Is there a reason behind this madness of yours this time?" Sherlock asked, doing his best not to tense under the close proximity of Moriarty as he circled around him like a wolf waiting to strike;hungry and wild.

"I'm not going to lie, Sherlock; I missed you while you were away, though I did enjoy the stories of your dismantling of my network, but stories aren't the same as the real thing. So, when you came back, I took my chance."

"What chance?"

"To make you mine; forever."

Sherlock laughed, "You had me turned to what- be your servant; to do your bidding like the rest of them? Vampire or not, I am still Sherlock Holmes, and I do not run James Moriarty's errands."

Moriarty slid around Sherlock and stood in front of him, his eyes, cold and lifeless burning into Sherlock's own, his lips firm and pink, just centimeters away.

"Oh honey, you misunderstand. Now that the Angels don't want you anymore, you've earned a spot on the throne next to the Devil."

"Never." Sherlock spat, pushing his face forward so that his nose was touching the other man's.

If Sherlock's heart could still beat it would have been pounding out of his chest with the chemical mixture of fear, hatred and arousal that only Moriarty had ever been able to produce inside of him. He wanted to dominate Moriarty; wanted to surrender to him. He wanted to kill him; watch the life slip out of his eyes once and for all, and then kiss him goodbye.

Sherlock stood straight and unflinching as Moriarty slowly bent his head away from Sherlock; his face disappearing into the crook of his neck. Sherlock felt the sharp scratch of Moriarty's fangs along the tender skin over his veins.

"Forever." Moriarty whispered before growling, and sinking his fangs into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock jumped, more in surprise than anything else. It didn't hurt like the first time he was bitten. There was just a pressure, and a blinding wave of pleasure.

Moriarty's hand came up to envelop Sherlock's face, and run his thumb down the razor sharp cheekbones. Sherlock was trapped, standing there. He felt Moriarty's lips against his skin, sucking the blood from inside him and bringing it into himself. He couldn't help the moan that escaped his mouth when Moriarty's free hand took a hold of his waist and snapped their bodies together.

And it was when Sherlock felt Moriarty' cold fingers slip underneath the collar of his shirt and brush against his equally cold skin that Sherlock came back to reality. He pushed his hands against Moriarty's chest, pushing him away, and ripping the edges of his fangs through the skin on his neck.

"I said, never!" Sherlock yelled, and slapped the back of his hand against Moriarty's cheek.

He watched the other man's head reel over his shoulder, watched him raise his own hand to trace along the red mark Sherlock had left. He slowly raised his head, laughing low from deep within his chest. His eyes were black, but they still managed to dance with amusement.

Sherlock steadied himself.

He knew that he had awaken the monster inside the Devil.


	11. Seductive Evil

Moriarty's hands clawed at Sherlock's dark curls as if he was an illusion inside the dead of night; simply a reflection making itself apparent from the dim candlelight.

The way he yanked his hair brought him back into reality; the grasp tethered him to the ground as he reluctantly slid down the wall, dropping to his knees.

The blood from his neck cascaded down his jugular; his already blood-stained shirt found moisture again as more of the vile liquid continued to seep into every fabric particle he wore.

He found himself trembling underneath Moriarty's everlasting grasp. His legs shook as he stared into Moriarty's black holes- they were pulling him in deeper and further with no evident escape.

Cold, lizard like hands trailed down the side of Sherlock's face- they gently caressed his cheek as he felt a trail of poison follow in his every touch. They met with Sherlock's soft, silky lips as the padding of his thumb gently glided itself over the rim of his mouth-yearning in undeniable desire.

Moriarty's face burrowed itself inside the bloodied crevice Sherlock had created; he inhaled the heavenly scent which only Sherlock could emit for his pulsing pleasure.

As teeth nuzzled at Sherlock's ear he could feel a cold, ravenous breath breathe itself inside his eardrum. "Shhh. Don't be scared." The voice whispered, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine.

Their eyes interlocked with one another- blue eyes staring into everlasting darkness. "Trust me. I'm not scared. I don't get  _scared_." Sherlock spat as if the last word rolling off his tongue was contaminated.

Moriarty's face revealed a mischievous smirk as he ghosted his way down Sherlock's sternum. "That's no way to treat your master. You should learn some respect."

Sherlock snarled,taking a gentle hold of Moriarty's head; his trembling subsided as he remained inside his firm embrace.

Sherlock's mouth traced along Moriarty's jawline,whispering a delicate breath into the crevice of his neck. "You know..there's one thing you don't know about me Moriarty.." he spoke, amusement rolling off his every word.

Gaining his full attention- Moriarty's sly grin crawled up to meet with Sherlock's face; his eyes gawked at Sherlock's expanse "And tell me Sherlock...what would that be?"

"If I was someone who experienced human emotion- I can tell you now... I would  _never_  show respect to you. Even if it was in my last dying breath. So if you dare even do as little as  _think_  I would ever take orders from someone as repulsive as you- let me tell you one thing- You don't know how wrong you are."

Moriarty's chuckle reverberated throughout the silence of the room. He arose onto his two feet, staring at Sherlock's aggressive body which still lingered below. "Such strong words- such confidence. I'm impressed."

Moriarty spun on his heels, staring at the open door. His hands folded behind his back as his feet paced along the wooden floorboards. "We all keep secrets Sherlock. Secrets that people beyond ourselves should never know." He paused for a moment; footsteps coming to a halt as he turned to face the slouched body he had produced. "Sherlock...I'm going to let you in on a little secret- Freedom is an illusion. As long as you're under my control- freedom will be non-existent. Do you understand?"

Sherlock's body crawled forward as his fists clenched the wooden floor below. "Y-You can't.." He was soon cut-off by the sound of Moriarty's pulsing snicker as his voice penetrated the agonizing silence. "Oh. But I can. And trust me- I would  _never_  pass up an opportunity this delicious."

His pacing resounded as footsteps evidently hit the wooden planks below. "We're immortal beings- You and I. So..I want you to tell me one thing- If I were to carve the absent heart out of your chest...what would happen?"

Sherlock staggered onto his feet, snarling at Moriarty as he stood in place- watching in glee. "I-Is that a challenge?"

Fingers clawed down Sherlock's face as Moriarty's eyes glimmered in undeniable passion. "Oh Sherlock..This isn't a challenge. It's a request."

As Moriarty's hands met with Sherlock's tender waist, he felt his force pressure him to the wall behind. His nose traced along Sherlock's neck as the touch of his soft, silky lips nuzzled at his ear. His cold breath unleashed itself in a wave of seduction as the earth around them stopped moving for a brief period. "Well, I shall not disappoint you."

Moriarty reached into his black blazer, pulling out his concealed weapon. The blade he held fit perfectly within his grasp, almost as if they were built for each-other.

Sherlock felt the blade's point scratch along his tender skin. The light pressure of the silver blade made him nervous as he steadily stared into Moriarty's eyes- following his every movement.

The blade ran across his high cheekbone, cutting his flesh in an instant; blood trickled out of the wound before the weapon even had a chance to leave his surface. Moriarty stared at the oozing blood in awe. Eyes glimmered in satisfaction as his tongue ran up the surface of his skin-consuming any blood which laid in his path.

Sherlock snickered with a hint of amusement as he felt Moriarty's tongue envelop the side of his face; his tongue was vile, breath poison, but touch delectable.

"So why roses?" Sherlock asked, feeling Moriarty's hands move further around his back.

"Does it really need explaining?"

Hands moved their way up Sherlock's sternum, meeting with his bloodied shirt; hands began to unbutton his fabric as he felt his hands slide their way down his chest. "Enlighten me."

"You see Sherlock. You're exactly like a rose and you don't even realize it." He paused for a moment, bringing his silver blade to Sherlock's heart. He delicately began carving into the flesh protecting his vital organ. "Roses are so exquisite...so sophisticated. They have a beauty everyone becomes envious of but they also hold an unavoidable wrath."

As the blade gouged deeper into Sherlock's flesh, he flinched in pain- pushing himself against the wall. Moriarty's body enveloped him whole, enclosing him inside the small space he had created. It felt like the air between them was evaporating as Moriarty's face gradually moved closer towards Sherlock's. Their noses gently rubbed against one another as Sherlock's mouth re-entered Moriarty's ear. "Are you sure you're not talking about yourself?" He whispered inside.

"Trust me. I wouldn't give you that answer. That's for me to know and for you to find out." He seductively whispered in return, sending a jolt of arousal through Sherlock's body.

"But we can't have fun without a bit of hurt..can we Sherlock?" Moriarty remarked, scathing his blade against Sherlock's defenseless body.

Moriarty continued to slash and carve his artwork into Sherlock's chest. With every cruel touch the blade beckoned upon him, he wailed in pain. Each bit of torment gradually intensified, causing him to drop his head onto Moriarty's shoulder- gasping for air as a result.

Sherlock could feel the world around him growing dizzier as his head spun in all directions. He gradually faded in and out of consciousness as he felt Moriarty's claws take their familiar but steady hold around his face. They snatched at Sherlock's cheeks, pinning him against the heavy wall he remained trapped on so he could somehow manage to stand upright.

"Don't be scared." Moriarty's voice whispered as Sherlock struggled to focus on anything but the pain dwelling inside his body.

Sherlock snickered at his remark. "Scared? You don't scare me. There's only one thing on this planet that has the capability of scaring me."

"Oh? And what would that be? What is Sherlock Holmes' greatest fear?"

As Sherlock chuckled through the pain he stared inside Moriarty's black eyes. He brought his breathless mouth towards his face where he struggled for words through his exhausted pants. "My greatest fear has already been successfully accomplished- So there is  _nothing_  you could possibly do that would scare me. Carve into my flesh all you want. They're only cuts."

"Brave words, Sherlock."

Moriarty drew his blade off Sherlock's body, stepping back from his presence. As soon as Moriarty's body had left Sherlock's he immediately collapsed to the floor below- heavy, shallow pants remained as he continually fought for air.

As Moriarty walked over to his luxurious desk, he picked up one of his many roses and gently held it within his hand, being careful not to damage it's delicacy in the process.

As his strode met with Sherlock's half conscious body he graciously knelt down onto one knee, taking hold of his face. As their eyes reluctantly pierced into one another, Moriarty elegantly placed the rose he held between his teeth.

As the final candlelight neared darkness, Moriarty's voice whispered into the night- "Goodnight Sherlock." Before the faint light finally diminished into darkness; only leaving Sherlock to follow.


	12. Broken in Blood

Sherlock woke some time later in a bed that wasn't his own. His chest ached, and as did a few other places Moriarty' s blade had reached along his body. Sherlock reached down to touch his chest. His fingers brushed over the smooth silk of a dressing gown he had been changed into. He teased them against the opening, not sure if he wanted to know what he would find underneath. He slid his hand underneath the fabric, and across his cold skin. His fingers found the angry edges, and began to trace over the pattern that had been left behind. Up, down; around. It only took a minute for him to realize what it was. He should have known anyway.

Sherlock laid his head back against the pillow. He was still upstairs, and could still smell and feel Moriarty all around him, even though there was no sign of him.

He closed his eyes, and settled back in. When he had been sleeping, he had been dreaming; John's eyes, and the way that they creased in the corners when he laughed. When John laughed or when he smiled, he did so with his entire face; lines creating a map over the surface. He dreamed about John's hands, and the way that they were a dichotomy of strong and gentle. They healed just as much as they were capable of killing.

It was a stream of images from the top of John's head down to his toes that Sherlock had held onto the three years that he had been gone, and instinctively his mind had gone there that night as well.

Sherlock' mind would continue to go there,would continue to hold onto John as he entered a dark and twisted relationship with Moriarty.

It started with a continuation of Moriarty dragging steel across Sherlock's flesh; not always leaving blood in its wake, but always leaving Sherlock trembling, and wanting more. Sometimes there was no blade, and just Moriarty' s fingers and his tongue, or the soft petals of one those damned roses, exploring every crevice, and dip and hollow. Sherlock hated how it made him arch his hips off the mattress, silently begging with his body for more. He was supposed to have more control than that, but it seemed to be lost every time he saw that cold, lifeless and dirty smile.

The first time that Moriarty kissed him, was after he had slowly, expertly drank from Sherlock's femoral artery on the inside of his thigh. Sherlock could taste the vile, inherent evil of Moriarty mixed with the rich tang of his own blood, and something inside snapped. Sherlock pressed his hands down hard against Moriarty's shoulders, and plunged his tongue deep into the other man's. Sherlock's fangs descended on their own will and collided with Moriarty's. They knocked against his lips, little drops of blood mingling with what was already smeared between their faces and inside their mouths.

Sherlock slid a knee between the space of Moriarty' s legs, and walked him backward from where Sherlock had been pinned against the wall, toward the bed that he always woke up in. He pushed Moriarty down, broke the contact of their lips, and climbed on top of him.

"Oh, was that all it would have taken?" Moriarty asked, running his thumb along Sherlock's stained lips. "Just a taste of yourself?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He instead, delicately pushed Moriarty' s head to the side, and sunk his fangs deep into his neck. He found himself transfixed by the taste, and by the sounds Moriarty made, and the way his body felt writhing underneath him. It made him bite harder, made Moriarty shout louder and dig his fingernails into Sherlock's back deeper.

Eventually, Sherlock eased his mouth away. He lapped at the pool of blood, taking in just a little more, and pressed some of his own into the punctures to close them.

He lifted himself off from Moriarty, and laid down next to him. They were both a naked mess of blood and sweat.

"I knew you would come around eventually." Moriarty said.

"Don't fool yourself, James. I was only hungry."

Moriarty laughed, and reached beside him to pluck a rose from the vase on the table beside him, and set it over the scars on Sherlock's chest.

It went on like that for another month; pain in the name of pleasure, degradation in the name of arousal. They fucked, and they drank fresh blood, not from the animals in the surrounding forest or the plastic bags from the blood bank, but from scared frightened, shaking men and women who Moriarty brought back. Sherlock let himself be used as the ultimate prize for an obsessed mad man, he let himself become something everyone had already believed he was.

But every dawn when he closed his eyes to sleep underneath Moriarty' s possessive arm, his mind went back to John; to mentally conjuring up images of his body, remembering the sound of his voice, the way that he walked or sat in his chair, or sipped on a cup of tea. He remembered the way that he smelled just after a shower; fresh like cottonseed and cucumber, and the water that had sprayed against him. He remembered how he smelled after running through London; the masculine mixture of sweat and musk was always so tantalizing.

Moriarty would always wake him somewhere in the middle of his dreams with an intimate bite somewhere on his skin as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking about; knew who he was dreaming about.

The grin on his face told Sherlock that he probably did.

* * *

Sherlock woke, a pain running through his arms and his legs that wasn't there when he had fallen asleep, surrounded by Moriarty and various fluids that had escaped their body throughout the night before.

He wasn't in the bed he had gotten so used to, wasn't even in the room that had almost become his. He was someplace he had never seen; dark with the sound of dripping water somewhere behind him that he couldn't see. The walls were visibly coming down; rafters from the ceiling hanging on for life by a nail, wallpaper torn into strips and weeping against the floor.

He was lying against a hard surface; a cold, metal table, and his wrists and ankles were fastened with cutting nylon straps to it. He couldn't move more than to slide his fingernails against the surface.

Moriarty's voice came from the shadows; it blew through him like an unwelcome breeze, and made him shake in a way it hadn't in some time.

"You've disappointed me again, Sherlock." He said, "I should have known better, but I've always been a man of hope and second chances, you know?"

His voice seemed to be coming from all around him, and Sherlock couldn't make out where he was; couldn't see him amidst all the rubble.

But just like on that roof, it seems I overestimated you."

He stepped out from behind a broken door, the handle of a crop in one hand and the length running across the closed palm of the other.

"I don't understand why you hold onto your humanity; why you hold onto him." He continued.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do!" Moriarty yelled, suddenly into the darkness, and snapped the leather of the crop against his shin.

Sherlock jerked forward at the burn, his restraints stopping him, and only doubling the pain.

Moriarty leaned in close, the crop sliding against Sherlock's sternum.

"I gave you a gift Sherlock. I gave you immortality, and we were supposed to rule together, but you're still so in love with him, and I don't get it. I really don't what is it about John Watson that you won't let go?"

Sherlock didn't give him an answer. He stared into Moriarty's eyes, watching his pupils constrict and contract.

"I used to cut him open, search around his insides and see what I could find, but I think- I think I'd rather taste him."

There was the sound of footsteps, and something being dragged. One of the vampires Sherlock had seen around the nest came into view, dropping a body unceremoniously between his feet and Moriarty's.

It was John. The smell, the sweet, beautiful and wonderful smell of John Watson was unmistakable. Moriarty bent down on one knee, grabbed the collar of John's jacket and lifted his head up. He was conscious, but barely.

John looked up, and his eyes almost smiled to see Sherlock again.

"I'll tell you how he tastes." Moriarty tilted John's head, bared his fangs, and lowered his head to John's neck.

"Don't!" Sherlock yelled. "Please, don't. I'll do anything- you know I'll do anything. But don't feed from him."

Moriarty ridged his head to give him a grin. He whispered, "sorry, Sherlock" and dug his fangs into John's neck.

Sherlock screamed, and fought against his restraints. He watched as John fought with what little life he had left, listened to the sound of blood leaving his body and passing through Moriarty's lips, over his tongue and down his throat. It didn't last long, though it felt like forever.

Moriarty released John, let him fall to the floor, and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He pricked his own thumb, and traces the holes he had left behind, closing them from bleeding out anymore. He picked up the crop he had dropped, and dipped it into John's blood. He stood next to Sherlock, raised the crop and brought it down against the soft flesh of his stomach, his chest, his thigh, his bicep; he struck everywhere, over and over again, running it back through the blood when the leather ran dry.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixated on John until his body was too numb from the pain, and he couldn't hold on any longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love to know what you guys think. So any feedback is more than welcome. Thanks for reading :)


	13. Conflicted Pain

The world became dizzy as Sherlock could barely awaken from his unconsciousness. His eyes faded in and out of focus as the cracking sound of Moriarty's riding crop shot through him like a painful bullet- A bullet he could no longer feel.

The echo remained haunting as the non-existent riding crop jolted through his body. Every false sound he heard beaten against the surface of his skull was agonizing. He felt like ripping the sound from his mind- discarding it so he would never have to hear it again.

As his eyes became wider and more alert he gradually forced his two feet to meet with the floor. He thoroughly examined his surroundings, deducing he was finally back inside his familiar environment- The closest thing he could call to a bedroom.

He looked down to the floor where he noticed John. His body laid down peacefully as Sherlock thoroughly studied his every detail with intent. He slowly climbed off his bed, ignoring the sudden aftershocks of pain as they jolted through his every nerve.

As he crawled along the floor to John's body- his blood smelt amazing. It was driving Sherlock crazy;just like it did when Moriarty's bloodied riding crop ran down his flesh-smearing John's blood all over his body.

He slowly made his way into John's presence. His ominous eyes loomed over his entire body as a whole. He stared wildly at the blood pumping through his veins;pupils dilating at the mere sight of it.

As Sherlock pinned his arms down either side of John he gazed his body up and down, looking at each of his features with great fascination. His eyes would keep getting drawn to his veins as he heard the blood pumping through them calling his name- yearning for attention. His attention.

Sherlock slowly took hold of John's wrist. He pulled his sleeve up so his bare skin became visible. He stared at his pulse for a moment, becoming mesmerized by it's harmonious melody as it brought music to his ears.

He calmly lowered his mouth onto John's wrist, mouth lingering over his veins as he felt his pulse beat against his cupid bow lips. With every sensation he felt he could almost taste the blood trickling down his throat, quenching his thirst in complete satisfaction.

Deliberately retracting his fangs he found his mouth ghosting it's way up John's arm. He breathed in his heavenly aroma,relocating his body on top of his so he had no apparent escape.

As he intriguingly tilted his head, he stared at John's beautiful face, gently caressing his cheek with the back of his hand. "Sweet, innocent, John." He quietly spoke not breaking eye contact.

John silently began to stir awake as he felt a restraint sitting on top of him. As he gradually opened his eyes he was met with Sherlock's gaze staring down at him. His fangs were visible, ready for attack as if he was a wild animal hunting down his prey.

"S-Sherlock?"

John's heart-rate increased. His blood traveled faster throughout his bloodstream causing Sherlock to gulp in anticipation. "J-John.."

John's eyes were blown wide as he struggled to free himself from Sherlock's grasp.

He forcefully pushed himself down onto John's body, holding him in place with nothing more but the mere weight of his crotch.

As he agonizingly endured John's struggle for freedom, he lent down into John's ear where he brushed his cheekbones along his ash-blonde hair. "Shh. It's okay John. Relax. I can feel your heart beating. Please...make it stop."

Sherlock could feel John's heavy pants connect with his skin as he timidly began moving his hand down to John's torso. As his hand slid up the delicate fabric he wore, he could feel John's body tense up from underneath him. His cold hands gently caressed his abdomen as he quietly spoke. "John...There's something you don't know about me."

"I-I don't understand. Sherlock what's going on?"

"I thought that would have been a fairly obvious deduction." He paused for a moment, bowing his head into the crevice of John's neck. He gently traced his fangs along the surface of his skin where his carotid artery was located, being mindful not to pierce his fragile area; even though the temptation was overwhelming.

"John..I'm sorry.."

John cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling his head out of his burrow. As their eyes stared intently at one another, Sherlock's fangs showed their entirety- threatening to attack.

"Sherlock...please..talk to me." John plead as he shook underneath Sherlock's body in fear.

Upon hearing those words Sherlock reluctantly looked away. He silently closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath as his fingertips gently fell to John's hipbones. He gently rubbed them in soothing motions as he felt John's body arch up slightly- arousal striking every emotion he has ever felt.

He lowered his head back down into John's hair, rubbing his soft lips against his ear. As his cold breath hit his eardrum he felt the touch of John's hand clasp the back of his dark curls, evidently yanking them in confused pleasure.

"John..There's something I need to tell you." His throat constricted as he felt his words get robbed by an invisible thief; his vocabulary gradually disappearing as he struggled to search for the right words to say."Y-You need to leave this place- find an escape. I'm not human anymore, John. If you stay here, I  _will_  hurt you."

"I don't believe you. The Sherlock Holmes I knew would never hurt me."

Sherlock snickered against John's jaw-line. "You're right..The Sherlock Holmes you knew would  _never_  hurt you. But that's not me anymore. And that's why you need to get as far away from me as possible."

"No.I'm not leaving you. Whatever it is you're going through right now..I'm going to help."

A smirk took-over Sherlock's face as his mouth hovered over the side of John's. "You can't help me John. No one can. This poison I have running through my veins is like torture." He suddenly got cut-off by the touch of John's gentle hands stroking his cheek as he spoke. "John...there is no easy way for me to say this...but I'm a Vampire and that's why I need you to leave."

An eerie silence fell in the room as John's gentle strokes came to a halt. His hand still touched Sherlock's cold skin as his entire body froze.

Sherlock said nothing. Instead he simply pushed himself up from John's torso; giving him the space he needed to comprehend the impossible notion which was just thrusted upon him.

Sherlock sat on his bed, staring at John as he slowly propped himself up onto his elbow. "Y-You're a Vampire? H-How is that even possible?"

"John..just..don't. I can't make you understand. You don't know how frustrating it is having you in the same room as me. John...you're food. Now. I won't ask you again. Leave."

As John slowly made his way over to the bed he was stopped by the pressure of Sherlock's hand pushing up against his stomach. "Stop. Don't come any closer."

"Sherlock..I just want to help." John bowed his head, clawing his fingers around his forehead as he tried to think of the right words to say. "I have so many questions..But I don't know which one to ask first.."

Sherlock's hand tightly grasped the shirt within his hand, preventing John from moving any closer. "Well don't. Don't ask me any questions. Just believe me."

John looked up from the ground, staring at Sherlock as he stared back at him. He could see his eyes starting to well up with tears, threatening to escape at the worst of times.

Despite the firm grasp Sherlock had over John, he outstretched his arm. He gently cupped the side of Sherlock's face, staring into his glistening blue eyes. "I do believe you. You're my best friend Sherlock. And I want to help you. Now tell me..how long has it been?"

Sherlock gently placed his hand over John's, he stared up at him with hope in his eyes. "How long has  _what_  been?"

"Don't act stupid Sherlock. You said it yourself…. _I'm food_."

"John..stop it. That's not what I meant." Sherlock snapped, anger simply rolling off his tongue and filling the air around them.

John proceeded to close his eyes, inhaling a deep breath. "Just tell me...how long has it been since you last fed?"

Sherlock broke eye contact, looking at the floor as he quietly spoke. "About three days."

John outstretched his arm and unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve. He neatly pushed it up his arm, exposing his bare flesh. The way his heavenly aroma hit the room closely replicated a bottle of perfume being opened for the first time. Sherlock breathed in, trying to absorb the succulent sensation lingering throughout the air.

His face was soon met with a hand. It gently stroked the side of his face causing him to look up out of his tangent mind. John's fingers softly outlined his high cheekbone as he knelt down onto both knees between Sherlock's legs, staring up at him in desperation.

As Sherlock climbed off his bed he knelt down to John's level. Their eyes interlocked with one another- emotions telling a thousand words.

"I'm not going to feed off you John."

John instantly took hold of the back of Sherlock's head, he pulled him in close, not breaking eye contact once. "Yes, you are. You're hungry. If I can provide you with the food you need. Then I will."

Conflicting emotions were starting to take-over inside Sherlock's head. He could feel the battle wreaking havoc inside his mind and he knew which side was going to win.

He delicately took hold of John's wrist, holding it within the palm of his hands. He stared at it as if it was a treasure, being careful not to frighten him in anyway. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

"I'm going to tell you this now- this isn't going to be a joy ride. So brace yourself."

John simply nodded, subconsciously tensing up his arm out of fear as he felt Sherlock's fingers trace his veins back and forth.

"I need you to relax. I need you to let your blood flow- don't constrict it. The more you fight the more it's going to hurt. Think of something nice. A memory perhaps."

Without a word more John's arm fell limp within Sherlock's palm; his breathing steadied as the sudden calmness put his mind into another place.

Sherlock's fingers continued to gently stroke his veins as he lowered his mouth onto his wrist. "Shh. It's okay John. This won't take long. I'm sorry about the pain you're about to endure."

As Sherlock's fangs retracted from their hidden sockets, they softly touched the surface of his skin. He tightly grasped his hands around John's forearm, holding him in place so it could prevent any sudden movement.

His fangs finally reached breaking point as they dug into his flesh. He felt John flinch from underneath him- trying to pull away from the intense pressure that only Sherlock's fangs could burden him with.

John struggled in pain which Sherlock could evidently feel. He continued drinking his blood,trying to make the whole ordeal as painless as possible. He felt John's blood gush into his mouth and trickle down his throat just like he had imagined.

Suddenly Sherlock felt John's hand yank his curls, trying to rip his mouth away from his wrist. "S-Sherlock..S-S-Stop.." He lifelessly murmured, feeling weak inside.

John's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he felt himself gradually becoming drained of all life. He slowly collapsed onto Sherlock's shoulders, losing all energy momentarily.

As Sherlock felt John's weight beckon itself upon him, he immediately dislodged his fangs. He caught John in his arms, slowly lowering him to the floor below where he lay unconscious.

 


	14. Another Taste of the First Time

It was six minutes before John came to, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Sherlock pricked his own finger with his fang, and closed the bites in John's wrist. He moved John's head into his lap, and ran his fingers through his hair. John's heart was still beating; getting stronger, and consequently louder against Sherlock's ears, with each breath he took.

Sherlock had only meant to drink a little; just enough to take the edge off of his hunger, but John tasted like nothing that had ever touched his tongue before; as human or vampire. Had he not been so hungry, had Moriarty not teased his senses with John's blood, he would have had the control to stop before John even started to protest.

But he hadn't been meant to stop at all. He was supposed to drain John of his blood; of his life. The dreams and hopes of a madman depended on John Watson's death coming from the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

John shifted against Sherlock's thigh; his eyes fluttered a few times in a struggle before they finally opened. An unexpected smile twitched against his lips.

"You - are a bastard." he said, quietly; still weak.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, and God had it been so long since he had done that, had felt even that small shred of his human existence.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, when his laughter started to feel as though it would give way to tears.

"And just what is it you're apologizing for; making me believe you were strung out, dead in an alleyway somewhere, throwing me out of our flat, or for nearly killing me just now?"

"I imagine you believe all of the above to be the correct answer?"

"Yes, Sherlock; all of the above."

John started to sit up, but only managed as far, as lifting his head from Sherlock's lap, and resting it against his shoulder, as he sat side by side with him. They sat there together in silence, neither knowing exactly what to say to the other.

Sherlock took stock of John's hands, one resting on his knee and the other on his own. They were just as he remembered, except for the presence of a small gold band that had been there for such a short time over the course of their friendship, but long enough that Sherlock still carried around the pain of what it meant with him.

"You're not wearing your wedding ring." Sherlock said, not meaning for it to be out loud.

"Brilliant observation. And what do you deduce from that?"

"That you've left Mary. Not more than three months ago; there's still a discoloration where it used to be."

John smiled, "Two months tomorrow, actually. Or maybe it's today. I'm not sure what day it is."

"The twenty second of June." Sherlock told him.

"Oh. Yesterday then."

They fell into another silence before it was John's turn to say his thoughts out loud.

"So, this is where you've been then; with Moriarty? Who is also a-uh, well; what you are."

"Vampire."

"Right; vampire." John said, whispering the last word so quietly, it was as if he hadn't even said it at all.

"And yes, though, your definition and my definition of  _with_  are going to vary slightly."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock carded his fingers through John's hair again, feeling each individual strand. What he had done was merely for his own survival, even if he had to admit to feeling pleasure those nights with Moriarty; it was nothing more than ensuring he survived, so that maybe one day he could control himself enough to go back to the man currently underneath his touch.

Sherlock had done terrible things to survive before; John too, had done terrible things in the name of survival during war. But he wouldn't understand this. He was too sweet, too good to understand sleeping with the enemy.

"Tell me what you thought about." Sherlock said, choosing to ignore John's question for as long as he would let him. "When I told you to think about a good memory; what was it that made you relax into me so easily?"

"I thought about leaning against the wall in the foyer of Baker Street; giggling with you in our shared state of madness."

"That's quite an old memory." Sherlock said.

"That's the moment I gave over all of my trust to you. For better or worse, Sherlock; I was yours from then on."

Sherlock hummed in agreement; in understanding. He felt John's arm reach across his lap, and their finger brush together until John interlaced his with Sherlock's.

"Moriarty did this to you?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, "Seems he has a slight obsession with me."

John laughed, "And why is it that I keep being put in the middle of his twisted romantic fantasies with you?"

"Because he knows that I have a slight obsession with you."

John's fingers squeezed tighter against Sherlock's.

"It's also possible," Sherlock continued, "that I may have been indulging his fantasies these last few months."

He expected John to be repulsed, to let go of his hand, and move away, but instead, he squeezed Sherlock's fingers even tighter, and lifted his head up, brushing his skin against Sherlock's own cold skin. Sherlock closed his eyes at the feeling of John's warmth against his chin; his cheek. The heat from John's flush was nearly setting Sherlock on fire, but he turned into it, needing more. He tilted his head down, and felt John's lips ghost at the corner of his mouth.

He heard John's heart beating, slow and steady as the smaller man slid himself into his lap. It was awkward with the floor underneath them, but John sat facing Sherlock, one knee on either side of him. John's whole body was thrumming above him, his blood rushing through one vein into another. The underlying scent of arousal was mingling with the already intoxicating aroma. Sherlock needed John at that moment; he wanted him, in so many ways.

"This isn't safe." Sherlock whispered, daring to put his hands on either side of John's waist.

"Nothing with you ever is."

"I'm serious, John."

John smiled, his lips curving upward to meet with Sherlock's

"you're not going to hurt me." He pressed his lips into Sherlock's, leaving a chaste kiss, "not until I tell you to."

Sherlock moaned, and that was the undoing of them both. John thrust himself forward in Sherlock's lap so that their bodies were flush together. His hands greedily roamed the expanse of Sherlock's bare back. Sherlock could feel each muscle warming and waking underneath the touch. His own hands slipped underneath John's stained and torn t-shirt, feeling the skin underneath.

John pulled his lips away from Sherlock's, mouthed them down his jaw line, and into his neck. He lapped his tongue rhythmically to the beat of his own rapid pulse where Sherlock's once had been. Sherlock moaned again, and his fangs descended on their own.

He wanted so badly to sink into John again, not to feed from him, just to taste him again, to know the difference in his blood between fear and ecstasy. But he waited. He waited while John's mouth explored his body, waited while his own hands explored John's; while their bodies rocked against each other. He waited for John to kiss him again, slow and deliberate. He waited until he heard John whisper into his ear.

"Now, Sherlock; do it now."

Sherlock didn't wait. He pushed John's head to the side, and pierced the skin in his neck. John dug his nails into Sherlock's shoulder at the sensation of the bite. He was tense, but soon he relaxed into it, letting his head arch back, and whimpering in delight.

John was pliant in his arms, and he was giving himself over; his body, his blood, everything, and there was no way in hell he was going to let Moriarty take this away from him.


	15. Parting in Death

Feeling John in his arms was a sensation Sherlock never wanted to let go of. When John was with him he could feel his humanity trying to shine through- his inner demons gradually fading away into nothingness.

John was the only person who could accomplish that. Without him, Sherlock felt lost, dysfunctional and broken. He was fading away- fading away into his inner darkness.

But somehow, when John's presence entered the room, he felt a sudden burst of tranquility and clarity surge through him. For that brief moment, he could feel like himself again- he could feel human.

Sherlock stared down at John's weak body; gently threading his fingers through his short ash-blonde hair. At the feel of this sudden, unexpected gesture John promptly looked up at him. "Are you okay?" He sympathetically questioned as their fingers fondled with one another.

Sherlock looked down at him; confusion evidently visible across his face. "Am I okay? Of-course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I just thought..You did just drink my blood...again. And I know you resent it."

Before John could speak anymore, Sherlock swiftly cut him off. "Resent it? I wouldn't exactly say resent is the correct word."

John propped himself up onto his elbow as he watched Sherlock with ease. "Not the correct word? Tell me then..what  _is_  the correct word?"

Sherlock stared at John's confused face for a moment as he repeated the question to himself in silence. The question he asked had so many possible answers- but there could only be one.

"John..I don't resent your blood. It's the complete opposite in fact. I desire it."

Silence fell as John's eyes interlocked with Sherlock's. He could feel his heart-rate increase as it beated against his chest, and Sherlock could hear it. He looked at John's chest and then back to him; he was evidently blushing in embarrassment as he felt his hands become clammy with sweat.

"John..what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, holding John's body tighter within his own.

"No-Nothing. Just..I've never heard you be so open about your feelings."

"Well, now you know how I legitimately feel." Sherlock paused for a moment, fondling with John's fingers as they sat on his own. "And I promise, I'm going to get us out of here."

John's eyes glimmered in hope as he stared at Sherlock's face; their fingers continued to thread through one another as he spoke. "And how do you plan to do that? We're like trapped mice."

Sherlock suddenly turned very serious as he let go of John's hand, staring attentively at his every detail. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He quickly composed himself, finding his voice. "I don't expect you to help me John."

"You don't expect me to help? Sherlock..of course I'm going to help you. Tell me your plan." Sherlock sighed for a moment, taking another firm hold of John's hand; his pressure was slightly tighter than before, making their surroundings tense with worry. "I need to kill Moriarty. And that is why I wouldn't expect your help, you have seen enough death- you don't need to see anymore."

John's hand slowly traced it's way over Sherlock's scar. His fingers gently made their way over the variety of lines coming off the stem in the center. His scar was in the shape of a rose- The only appropriate way for Moriarty to make Sherlock his. "I want to help you, Sherlock. Please let me." John cupped his hand around the side of Sherlock's cheek, he lovingly held him within his palm as he continued to speak. "I know what you're worried about and I can assure you, you don't need to worry. I can do this."

Sherlock's hand gently stroked John's as he indulged in his everlasting touch. "It's okay, John. I trust you."

As Sherlock and John remained arm in arm, they were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the door behind them creaking open. They both simultaneously swung their heads over their shoulders, coming face to face with Rebecca.

Her slow footsteps entered the room as Sherlock promptly held John closer into himself; he could feel John's rapid heart-beat, thumping against his chest in fear.

Sherlock slowly leaned his mouth down into John's ear, whispering quietly inside. "Don't be scared John. I'll protect you. Even if it's in my last dying breath."

Rebecca chuckled at the sight which Sherlock notably ignored. "Moriarty wants to see you. Both of you. His room- five minutes. Don't be late." And without a word more she simply waved them goodbye, walking out of the room.

As Sherlock heard the door slam shut he gently placed his head onto John's. His breath expanded itself over John's face as he quietly began to speak. "Five minutes, John. Are you ready?"

John looked up at Sherlock as he gently stroked the side of his face. "I'm ready, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave out a faint smile before bringing John to his feet. He momentarily put a white t- shirt on over his bare chest as his trench-coat soon followed. He huddled John underneath his arm as they walked down the corridor together. They were ready to bring an end to Moriarty- Once and for all.

* * *

Moriarty sat inside his bedroom; his legs were crossed over one another as he placatingly cupped his hands around his knees. He patiently waited for John and Sherlock to make their expected appearances.

Moriarty's ears perked up when he heard the sound of footsteps. He eagerly sat up in his chair, not being able to hide the mischievous smile his face unleashed. "You're finally here." He paused for a moment, storming onto his feet when he saw Sherlock alone. "John isn't with you? Where is he, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cupped his hands behind his back as he slowly began to pace the room, not taking his eyes off Moriarty. "John isn't feeling well- he's resting. I think I may have taken it out of him."

Moriarty clasped the chair underneath him, grinning manically at Sherlock's remark. "So, you fed on him? Tell me, Sherlock. What was it like?"

Sherlock's pace came to a halt. He slowly turned around to face Moriarty; his eyes were glazed with fury, if they were a weapon he was sure they would have stabbed Moriarty right there and then in indulgent pain. "He was...delectable." Sherlock snarled as his pace resounded inside the room.

Moriarty made his way around the chair, walking towards Sherlock's pacing body. "Good, Sherlock. Good. I have trained you well, haven't I?" He slowly reached up to cup Sherlock's cheek; his black eyes stared into Sherlock's blue- not letting go. "But, I do wonder..If he is still alive- you stopped. Why did you stop Sherlock?"

Their eyes didn't leave each-others sight as Moriarty waited for a response that never came. "Mmm. You're not answering. Sherlock...we both know what happens if you don't obey my requests. I don't want to hurt you, but I will, and you know I can."

Sherlock's gaze ripped Moriarty in half. He could feel his fury come to the surface of his skin as he snatched Moriarty's hand from his face, spitting at him in disgust. "John Watson is my friend. You mean  _nothing_  to me, Moriarty."

Moriarty's laughter vibrated through the room- It seeped through the walls like an evil curse. "Sherlock..last time I checked- we fucked. And you  _loved_  it." He ghosted his lips along Sherlock's jugular, causing him to outstretch his neck in repulse. "You were  _screaming_  Sherlock. When my fangs sunk into your skin for that very first time. I saw you- I saw your reaction."

Moriarty deliberately retracted his fangs as he gently dragged them along Sherlock's soft, taut skin. His vein was plump- ready for drinking.

Moriarty was careful not to pierce Sherlock's delicate vein. He inhaled his every scent with flared nostrils- savoring his every ounce of ecstasy in one hit.

Sherlock's chuckle suddenly echoed throughout the room as Moriarty continued to nuzzle at Sherlock's neck. "Oh, trust me. I may have been screaming, but it was not out of pleasure. Do you want to know what I used to think about everytime you came near me?" He paused for a moment, giving Moriarty the chance to reply- but it never came. "I thought about this day. And do you know what...this day has finally come."

Moriarty slithered his way up Sherlock's neck, gradually rising himself from the surface of his skin. His sly face met with Sherlock's sternness as they assertively stared at one another. "And..tell me Sherlock. What's today?"

Sherlock gave out a faint snicker as he smirked into Moriarty's eyes with glee. "Today is the funeral of James Moriarty." Sherlock grasped his hands around the back of Moriarty's head, gently stroking his every strand of hair. "And trust me...it has never felt so good."

Without a word more, Sherlock forcefully pushed Moriarty into his torso. His face suddenly dropped in horror as he felt the heart-wrenching pain tear through him. He weakly dropped his head onto Sherlock's chest, covering his abdomen in sheer shock. His hands took hold of his abdomen as his blood continued to pour out of his stomach. He slowly slid down Sherlock's body, falling to the floor by guided hands.

His breathing became hoarse and ragged as he struggled for air. "You're pathetic, Sherlock." He spat in disgust. "I'm immortal. This won't kill me. Vampires can't die from blood-loss."

Sherlock raised his bloodied blade into the air, watching the droplets of blood cascade into his mouth and trickle down his throat in delight. "No, but it will hurt a damn lot. And you won't be recovering anytime soon."

Sherlock swiftly spun on his heels, positioning his collar into it's rightful position. As his feet sounded towards the exit, he could hear a slight struggle emitting from behind him. As he peered his head over his shoulder he witnessed Moriarty struggling onto his feet, baring wild fangs which Sherlock could notably notice. "No, Sherlock. You're not leaving here. You're not leaving me!"

Before Sherlock had the chance to react to Moriarty's remark, he had already projected himself throughout the air- bounding Sherlock over as his bloodied stomach pinned him to the floor. "You're not leaving me Sherlock. Ever." He managed to painfully say through savage fangs.

They both stared at one another, fangs showing their dominance as if they were two wolves fighting for their prey. Sherlock threatened Moriarty by hissing at him; his fangs felt larger than they had ever been.

Sherlock's attempt at a legitimate threat only caused Moriarty to hiss back at him in madness. "You can't kill me Sherlock. You stabbed me. And look at you on the ground trying to intimidate me. You'll never be stronger than I am."

"I might not be. But I know someone who is." Sherlock aggressively snarled.

Before Moriarty had the chance to blurt out a reply; his neck was met with the a sharp instrument from behind. He suddenly straightened up, rolling his head over his shoulder to come face to face with John Watson holding a katana firmly in his grasp. "Goodnight, Moriarty. I'll see you in Hell."

Without a word more, John swung the blade behind him; and with all the force he could manage, he unleashed all of his fury into Moriarty's neck. The blade cut straight through his carotid artery, slicing through his jugular until his head was finally decapitated.

John stared at the lifeless, decapitated body on the ground; his chest heaved rapidly up and down as he panted for air. His survival mode was still noticeably in check as his eyes never left Moriarty's body.

Sherlock was somewhat in shock as he stared up at John. He felt like his breathing had stopped as he watched John's body heave up and down with his every exasperated breath. John could feel Sherlock watching him, he slowly peered his head over his shoulder, using his sleeve to wipe away some of the blood spatter on his face.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's over now. He's dead."

 


	16. Epilogue

Sherlock had his head arched off from the pillow underneath him, and his hips were slowly following. He had John's hair slipping through the tips of his fingers, and he tried desperately to open his eyes and look down at him, but it was too much; it was too good.

Being with John Watson was too damn good, and he had almost let him get away again.

After Moriarty was dead, they gathered his body, and his head, and buried them separately in the woods several meters away from the abandoned house. They left a large rock in place of a headstone. Sherlock had brought a rose from inside, and he pulled it out of his pocket to set down on the stone.

"All beauty must die." Sherlock whispered, and slipped his hand into John's to go home.

At Baker Street, they took turns showering the blood and the grime off from themselves, and John made tea, because John always made tea, and because John always tried to make things better. They sat in their respective chairs in the dim, because the light still hurt Sherlock's eyes, and they sipped at their tea.

"Earlier, what you did- that was good." Sherlock stammered around the rim of his cup.

"Yes, well, you tend to bring out the killer in me." John had said, hiding a smirk over his lips.

"The feeling is mutual."

They sat in a silence. Silence used to be content between the two of them, Sherlock loved the silence almost as much as he loved the conversation and the laughter, but this silence was different, because Sherlock knew that he was going to tell john to leave.

"Before you say it-" John started, "my answer is no, Sherlock. No."

"It wasn't going to be a question. It' a fact that needed to be stated. You can't stay here, you can't stay with me."

"Do you know that our entire relationship you have been telling me, sometimes in words, but most often in the things that you don't say, what I do and don't want- what I can and can't have when it comes to you. But I'm not listening to you anymore."

"But, John-"

"I didn't care who you were when we first met, and I don't care what you are now, because you're mine; always have been, always will be."

Sherlock had smirked, and set down his cup, "I think the way that this works is that you're mine."

John laughed, and Sherlock remembered again how it was his favorite sound, and he thought about living without it for an eternity, living without everything John wanted to give to him. John wanted to give him his blood; his life. He wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him in return. John wanted to stay; wanted to love him, and Sherlock was losing the battle inside himself to keep telling him no.

In that moment, Sherlock had decided to give in and admit defeat.

"Sherlock, where did you go?"

John's voice, and the sudden loss of heat from between his legs brought Sherlock back into the present moment, and he looked down to John's flushed face, and his swollen lips.

"Nowhere. I'm here." He reached out and touched John's cheek.

John slid up Sherlock's body and rested his head in the crook of his neck. Sherlock put an arm across John's back, absently skimming his fingers over his warm skin. The blood and the sex were wonderful, but this- those humanizing moments between the two of them were what Sherlock truly cherished, what he let himself be sentimental over.

John always kept him right, kept him good, and he would need that more than ever now.

"Would you mind letting me up, so I could pop into the loo?" John asked, his voice rumbling through Sherlock's chest.

He sighed, and lifted his arm of from John, his fingers siding away slowly, "it' so tedious being human."

"Yes, it is, but I rather like it." He smiled and kisses Sherlock on the tip of the nose before jumping out of the bed, and slipping into the bathroom.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile, and he laid on his back with his hands behind his head. The sheets were a tangled mess, and had John's blood saturated into it. Sherlock thought about changing sheets, but decided against it in favour of just switching sides of the bed, and sleeping atop of it.

"Sherlock?" John called from the bathroom, his voice strange and high pitched. Not like he was in danger, but something wasn't right.

Sherlock got out of bed, and pushed open the door to find John standing in front of the sink.

"What is it?" He asked.

"I-I don't know."

Sherlock peered over John's shoulder. The basin was filled about halfway with thin blood, and floating on top was a delicate lotus blossom; purple and white.

"It's a lotus." Sherlock said.

"What is it doing in our sink?"

"I suppose someone left it for us. Or more likely, for me."

"Who?"

"Do you know that a lotus can grow out of the most disgusting and vile circumstances?" Sherlock asked, reaching around John, and picking up the blossom, letting the red mixture of blood and water run up his arms.

"It's strong; a fighter. And it's this flowers tenacious spirit that keep it virtuous, and innocent despite it's damnation of being born in the dark." He continued.

"That's great, Sherlock, but again, why is it in our sink; who left it here, and what does it mean?"

Sherlock smiled, and looked at johns reflection next to his in the mirror.

"It means, dear John, that the game is still on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that now officially concludes Vindication and Frailty.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos, comments and love! We had a really fun time writing this together!
> 
> Keep an eye out for our next collaboration: The Ivy of the Burning Winter. - A Victorian Johnlock AU


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